


Arya the Unlikely

by WaltzingTheFaePaths



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Queen Arya, Queen in the North
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2019-10-13 19:50:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17494214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaltzingTheFaePaths/pseuds/WaltzingTheFaePaths
Summary: In the Stark line of succession, Robb was first, then Bran, then Rickon, Sansa, and then Arya.  Jon, as a bastard, came last.  Valar Morghulis.Arya runs to Braavos because she has no family left.  Nymeria reaches out to her from across the sea to let her know that Rickon, at least, still lives - and that he needs her help.Winterfell was never meant for Arya.  She never wanted to be a lady.  So she compromises - Arya Stark becomes the King in the North.  The Night King won't know what hits him.  Winter is truly coming





	1. Swift as a Deer

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my NaNo entry for 2018 (ie what I worked on when Kings was giving me grief). Shout out to tumblr's kithlessheir for consistently kicking my arse into gear for the last five Novembers.
> 
> As always, constructive criticism is always welcome! Please read and review!

* * *

* * *

 

Direwolves are a wild, ancient type of magic.  The Old Gods had tried to warn the Starks when they sent the wolves to them.  The parent had been lost to the stag, and the stag to her, leaving behind six babes.  Two girls and four boys, each loving each other and holding tight ties to their siblings.  The wolfpups had a sense of each other that their humans would have done anything to possess themselves, but all were fiercely protective of each other regardless.

 

The Little Sister, called Lady by her girl, had been lost when they were still pups, and the five who were left howled their grief to the heavens.  Her girl howled with them, in her heart of hearts, and the girl who was half-wolf herself howled aloud.

 

The Oldest Brother, called Grey Wind, had not been a great deal older when he, too, had been lost.  The Wild Sister, Nymeria, knows that her girl had been there.  Even though she had been separated from her girl, Nymeria could still feel Arya in the back of her head, and they had howled together throughout that terrible night.  The others had joined them – Brindled, White and Black, scattered across the land and past the humans’ Wall, all had mourned the eldest of the Pack.  The three boys who remain take a while to figure out why their wolves grieve so, but Nymeria’s girl knows, and she is shattered for it.  Lady’s girl will not find out for another week, and when she does she will first hide her grief, and then mourn terribly in private.  Her dreams will show her what she has missed.

 

In the Riverlands, Nymeria’s girl wanders in pain and alone except for the old Hound.  And in the Riverlands, Nymeria’s pack grows larger. 

 

The Brindled Brother, the last to be named by his human, was far, far to the North – where their mother had first carried them from, and far beyond any of them, even the quiet White Brother.  The Black Brother was the closest to her pack out of all of them, and sometimes Nymeria wished that she could run to him, grab him and his boy and bring them with her to these southern Riverlands.  If they were here with her, Nymeria knew that she could keep them safe with her pack of hundreds.  She could keep them fed, even the boy, with all of the prey in these lands she called her own.  Winter was coming, and monsters came with it, and she wanted her family as close as she could get them.  She wanted her girl back, from beyond the Dead Water, wanted her brothers altogether with her pack, and she wanted the threats _gone_.

 

There was something wrong with her wild Black Brother, and as the eldest born pup left, it was her job to keep him safe.  With a howl, Nymeria gathered her pack, and headed North for the first time in years.

 

* * *

 

 

A girl woke to darkness in Braavos, howling.  The direwolf that had once been Arya Stark’s shared a girl’s head every night, but this time the beast had been trying to talk _to_ a girl, not just sharing headspace.  Nymeria had been trying to talk to Arya Stark, but Arya Stark was dead.  There was only No One left, now.

 

A girl locked away her dream, prayed to the Many Faced God in the form of the Northmen’s Weirwood-faced Old Gods, broke her fast, and went to train with the Waif.  A girl lost.  A girl tried not to think of Rickon Stark, direwolves or Westeros.   A girl may have been successful, for Jaqen H’Ghar gave her another test.  A girl was asked to prove she was No One, to drink a potion without fear.  And so a girl did, and had her eyes returned to her.  A girl showed no emotion, and a girl was asked to give the God’s Mercy via poison.  A girl was to go to the Mummers Square, find this Lady Crane, and give her the Gift.  A girl was now called Mercy.

 

A girl watched a play.  A girl was watched.  A girl watched the mummers backstage, found Lady Crane’s wine, discovered that she always had a cup after each performance in celebration.  A girl’s path was clear, but first she wanted to know why Lady Crane was to receive the gift.  And so, a girl watched some more, listened hard, and gathered rumours.

 

A girl went back to the House, and asked for a face.  A girl was denied, and a girl dreamed again.

 

* * *

 

 

Nymeria ran North, to her wildest brother, the closest.  There was something wrong – he and his boy and the woman who looked after the boy had gone to one of the big man rocks for protection, but it didn’t look like the _right_ kind of protection.  The woman had chased the Black Brother, Shaggydog, away from the man rock, had tried to make the boy run, but they had been run down by the men’s horses.  Shaggydog had been hit with the flying claws as he retreated, and Nymeria and their other two brothers had all howled at the knowledge.

 

So now Nymeria was running north, north, North to find her wounded brother, and to take back his boy.

 

Her pack ran with her, hundreds of wolves and dogs of all sizes, all smaller than Nymeria.  She was the alpha of this pack, and if she told them she was going North, then they were all going.  It’s when her forerunners tell her of a man that she starts to sense an issue might arise in her pack.

 

_The Hound_ , her girl’s voice drifts through the back of her head.

 

The man had been pack-not-pack to her girl, had kept her alive when Nymeria couldn’t.  He had fed her and sheltered her, and the girl had thought that he’d died for her.  Nymeria knows that the man can help her with her little brother and the flying claws he was attacked with, and even though he is a massive man, she is a massive wolf, even for her kind.

 

Nymeria stalks towards the man, growling a warning.  The warning is for her pack, for the ones who want to run and for the one’s who want to feast, but the man is made wary by it too.

 

Good.  She didn’t think he was a fool, but it was hard to tell with men; even her girl had had her moments.

 

“And which one are you, then?”  The Hound growls, dropping his wood-and-metal claw and watching Nymeria closely.  “You’re not Lady, I know that, and you’re not the King’s.”  Nymeria starts at the sound of the Little Sister’s man-name, ears flicking up and down once.  “If you were wild, I’d be dead.  So then.  Are you Nymeria?”

 

She whined at her man-name, and cocked her head at the man.

 

“Of course you’d belong to the little wolf bitch.  Leaves me for dead so her wolf can kill me off, is that it?”

 

Her girl is in the back of her head, helping the man-tongue make sense to Nymeria; they shake their shared head, stalk forward, and sniff him all over.  Once she is satisfied with his scent, she crouches, and gestures to her back with her head.

 

“Fuck off,” The Hound snarls.  “Your girl almost killed me, I’m not letting you finish the job!”

 

Nymeria huffs, narrows her eyes at him and tosses her head again.  She snarls at her pack, sends them running towards the North once again.

 

“North, maybe?”  The Hound whispers.  “Well, they say the Little Bird is in the North – maybe she’ll want a dried out old cunt for company.  Will you let me gather supplies?”

 

Nymeria rocks upright and nudges the man with her head – _hurry up_ , she tries to say.  The message must cross over, because the man hefts his odd claw and makes a quick, limping pace back towards a man-den being made out of stripped trees.  Nymeria wants to hang back, but her girl is so curious that she goes close enough that they can see and hear clearly.

 

“Septon Rae!”  He calls out to a short man with dark skin and darker fur.  “I’ve got to go.  Don’t get killed.  Don’t touch those fucking mushrooms again. And burn that fucking helm already.  What did you do with the rest of my armour?”

 

“You’re leaving us for wolves?”  The little man askes, teeth flashing.  “Your plate and chainmail are in the river where you threw them, and you gave your sword to Stig’s son, remember?”

 

“Seven hells,” The Hound growls, stalking over to a bedroll and pack, throwing only a few things together and slinging them over his shoulder, hefting the man-claw and growling his way back to Nymeria.

 

“Listen here,” He snaps at her, ignoring the gaping smaller man and pointing a single finger in her face.  “I’m only coming because of the wolf girl and the little bird, d’you understand?  You be straight with me, and I’ll be straight with you.  Let’s go.”

 

Nymeria crouches again for him, and once he seems to have settled, she takes off.  It is not as easy to run with such a large man on her back, but Nymeria is strong, and her girl is more present in the back of her head since … well, since she sent Nymeria away, the wolf supposes.

 

_Come back to the pack_ , Nymeria thinks to her girl.  _To our brothers.  Help me save them._

 

Her girl is hesitant, but finally Nymeria can sense she has just nodded.

 

_A girl is Arya Stark of Winterfell_ , her girl thinks to her.  _And I’m coming **home**_.

 

* * *

 

 

It is the middle of the night when Arya awakens.  It is the hour of the wolf, and there is no one else in the House who should be awake right now.  It is better safe than sorry though, so Arya travels quietly and quickly, finds her way to all of the little places across Braavos where she had hidden away coins, provisions, a change of clothes, and the spot off the harbour where she had tucked away her Needle.  She has made it a point since she first landed in this country to always know which ship is what, where it is from and when and where it is going next.

 

Right on dawn she finds the small trader from White Harbour that she had been looking for, and just as it is taking off she races across the jetty and launches herself on to the decking.  The men all turn to her in shock and anger, but she turns to the captain and speaks calmly and clearly.

 

“I would like to book passage home.  I can pay, and I brought food enough for the journey.”

 

The captain sneers at her.  “Get off of my ship.  I wouldn’t give you passage if you were Sansa Stark herself!”

 

“It’s a good thing I’m only her little sister, then.” Arya says bravely.  “My name is Arya Stark.  I have a castle to retake.”

 

“Arya Stark is dead,” Snapped the captain.

 

“No, that’s her alright!” One of the deckhands exclaimed.  “Arya Underfoot!  I took a delivery to Winterfell just before old King Robert arrived, and you and your little brother, the one what was crippled, you two was chasing each other all over the castle walls!  What are you doing in Braavos?”

 

“It doesn’t matter now.” Arya says simply.  The ship has continued to move towards Westeros the whole time they’ve been talking, but she wants to make sure.  “Can I strike a deal, Captain?”

 

The captain makes a disgusted noise, before turning to his first mate.  “You, get us home.  Lady Stark, in here.”

 

She resists the automatic _I’m not a Lady_ , and follows him in to his cabin/study.  He wants to know why she was in Braavos, but she won’t tell him.  He wants to drop her off in the ocean, but she promises it won’t be worth it.  He wants her to pay an extravagant fee for her charter, but she had been Cat of the Canals long enough to know what the average price for a ship to Westeros should be, and she knows what a last-minute passenger might be charged, and had eventually whittled his fee back down to something reasonable enough to leave her money for when they made land.  He said if she wanted to sleep anywhere, it would have to be on deck.  She said that there would surely be room for someone her size in the cargo hold, and they had then gone round and round in circles trying to find somewhere where they were both happy for her to spend her nights.

 

She was not a child any longer.  She was not going to sleep somewhere it might cost her.

 

* * *

 

 

The man is grumbling and growling to himself when Nymeria finally calls for the pack to rest.  They have made it from the foothills of what was called the Vale, and have reached the very edge of the marshlands.

 

“Fucking Neck,” the man snarls when he hops off of Nymeria and sinks almost to his knees in the mire.  “Fucking Starks.”

 

Nymeria ignores him, and her pack give him a weary berth.  As well as they can with the terrain, they sleep in a massive circle through the grey dawn hours, the man sleeping against Nymeria’s flank.  Once the light of day is certain, Nymeria sends members of the pack to hunt for the whole group, and takes the time to try and see if she can’t find her girl.  Arya Stark had run with the pack on and off throughout the night, and Nymeria knew this to be because her girl did not trust the men around her.  Her girl was on a big man-wood structure on the dead water, and was still some distance away – would not arrive in this land for many nights yet.  Nymeria was impatient for her girl to come though; she wanted to rescue her brother, and his boy.

 

Her girl is lurking in the corners of Nymeria’s head when a scuffle breaks out between members of the pack.  One brindled female, _Good-Mother-*particular pitched whine*_ , had snapped at another female over her treatment of the pups.  The last batch of pups were half-grown, and were struggling with Nymeria’s unforgiving pace.  _Good-Mother-*particular pitched whine*_ wanted to let them rest longer, but the other female, one of the previous litter, wanted to show them how to catch the rain-singers, the small, quick, slimy creatures who tasted nice.  _Good-Mother-*particular pitched whine*_ snapped at _*huff*-young-quickbite_ , and Nymeria snarled at both.  Her girl told Nymeria to take blood from _*huff*-young-quickbite_ to set an example, but Nymeria snarled at her too.  That wasn’t how to run a pack.  Both females were snarled and snapped at, and Nymeria told the pups to rest while they could, and drink plenty of water.  She told _*huff*-young-quickbite_ that she could _demonstrate_ how to catch the rain-singers, and told the pups to wait until they were finished going North before trying it for themselves.  _Good-Mother-*particular pitched whine*_ she told to step back a little, and to rest as well.

 

Her girl is quiet, but present, in the back of Nymeria’s head.  _You didn’t draw blood?_   She asks.

 

Nymeria sends back a head-shake.  _Injuries will come later,_ she says.  _No need for blood yet.  Both females can offer more if they are kept happy.  The pack must work together.  Don’t forget again – you have been lone-wolf too long._

 

Her girl sends back her own nod, and then disappears again.  Nymeria misses her.

 

* * *

  

The crew of the ship eventually find out that she had been of service to the House.  Whilst it does not get her free passage, as she might have expected of an Essosi ship, it does guarantee her secrecy.  There was still a price on her head, and Cersei had revealed herself to be almost as mad as her firstborn.  The sailors agreed that they were likely to be hung for treason, if it was found out that they had had Arya Stark, and not handed her over to the Queen.  There was a girl a few years older than Arya who was the sole non-Westerosi aboard, and she suffered of a wasting disease.  She was a believer of the Many Faced God, and she had begged the mercy of the Gift, offering her face as payment.  She was pretty, a merchant girl from Volantis, and Arya knew she could use this face to get what she wanted, once they made port.  She had the girl, Ghita, tell her all she could about her trade, and then had given her the Gift.  A slip of a certain herb in her cup at dinner, and it appeared as though Ghita had simply succumbed to her disease earlier than expected.  Arya had taken her face, wrapped the body, and said the prayers of the Old Gods.  She hoped the poor girl found something better, more peaceful, in death.

 

As soon as the ship had made port, Arya put on Ghita’s face and one of her dresses, and made her way to the Merman’s Court.  She sneaks in to the castle, follows the shadows until she finds her way to the Hall.  Lord Wyman is easy to spot, and easy to approach; he is stuffing his face and trying not to listen to his Lannister-faced Maester.  Arya has not been herself – Underfoot, Horseface, the daughter of Winterfell – in a very long time, so it takes her a moment of standing in front of the Lard Lord in order to regain that person.

 

“You’re pretty, lass, but our grandfather is busy,” A young brunette to the left of the Lord says firmly, mistaking her staring for desire.

 

“This face is, yes.”  Arya agrees, keeping her eyes on Wyman.  “But that is not why I am here, Lady Wynafred.”  This had to be Wyman’s older granddaughter – Arya had only ever met the younger, and knew Wylla to be cheerful and to be fond of dying her hair a lurid shade of _green_.  They had made fast friends over Harvest Feasts, mostly because Arya had thought her hair amazing, and because Wylla was trying to win Jon over for her sister.  Bastard Arya’s favourite brother may have been, but he was _Ned Stark’s_ bastard, and that held sway in the North – especially for two ambitious daughters who did not wish to lose their House names. 

 

Finally, the fat Lord looks at her, eyes gleaming as much as the fat on his face.  “What do you want, girl?”

 

“Valar Morghulis.”  She says, watches the recognition flash briefly through those gimlet eyes.  “The Harvest Festival of my oldest brother’s tenth year, I made you choke on your soup, my Lord – I wanted to know why they called you Lord So-fat-he-can’t-sit-a-horse, and I wanted to know how anyone managed to get so big.  When King Robb went to war, you sent both your sons to fight for him, and lost them at that Red Wedding – one to the Gods, and one to the Freys.  I would avenge them, and my own brothers, if I am able.”

 

Wyman’s eyes flick to the Maester, blonde and green-eyed and beautiful, and then back to hers quickly.  In a simpering voice, he says, “I am old, my lady.  My memory is not what it was, but… I could have sworn you looked like your father, gods rest his soul.”

 

“I have come from Braavos,” Arya says simply.  “I picked up a trade, whilst I was there.”

 

“So I see.  Valar Dohaeris.  What do you need to serve your vengeance?”

 

“A horse, for now.  My baby brother needs rescuing, and once that is done…”  She tails off, watches him carefully, keeps an awareness for the Maester beside him.  “I plan to make for the Twins, after.”

 

“Very good, my Lady.  Though, not further North?”

 

Arya tips Ghita’s face in to a moue of distress.  “Justice must come first, my Lord, no matter what else I wish to do.”

 

He nods a few times, at that.  “You are your mother’s daughter, truly.  You must contact me when you have need of me again, my lady.  Wynny, take the girl to the stables, and find her a good sturdy mount.  Wylla, make sure she has enough food and drink.  We will talk again, my lady.  I pray the Seven keep you safe.”

 

Arya inclines her head.  “May the Old Gods watch over you and yours, my Lord.  And may the Many Faced God have no need to grant you his Gift any time soon.”

 

Wynafryd Manderly rises gracefully despite her sudden pallor and understanding, steps around the table, and escorts Arya to the stables, whilst her green-haired sister dashes away to the kitchens.  Once Arya and Wynafryd have passed the last of the crowded corridors, Wynny spins both of them in to a spare room.

 

“You are truly the lady Arya Stark?”  She whispers quickly.  “Prove it.”

 

Arya slips Ghita’s face off long enough for Wynafryd to see her dark hair and grey eyes, and then pulls it back on again.  Wynny grins brightly, hugs Arya tightly, and then proceeds to sneak her out of a window.

 

In the stables she is given a roan mare by Wynny, heavily-packed saddlebags by Wylla, and oaths of fealty on behalf of House Manderly.  Arya thanks them both, and then turns the horse’s head North and East.

 

_Rickon, Shaggydog_ , she prays.  _Stay safe.  I’m coming!_

 

* * *

 

 

The man nearly seems to do nothing but grumble, snarl and complain.  Nymeria now understands why her girl had wanted to tear out his throat more oft than not, and struggles to resist the urging herself.  She needs the man alive to tend to her little brother.

 

The little men of the swamplands let them pass without issue, and none dare to stop the pack of hundreds.  None dare to stop the Direwolf from returning to the North.

 

Except for one.

 

He stands alone, waiting for them in the middle of the Neck.  Nymeria does not know him, and neither does the Hound, who growls out a _who the fuck are you?_

 

“My name is Howland Reed, Lord of the Neck.  You are Sandor Clegane, yes?  Who is that wolf you ride?”

 

“Nymeria,” He grunts.  “The direwolf of Arya Stark.”

 

Howland cracked out a quiet chuckle, and stepped forward slowly.  “The last of the family left unaccounted for is Ned’s fierce little girl.  Do you know how she fares?” 

 

“She was fine enough when I saw her in the Vale two years ago.  I don’t know where she went after that, though.  Probably Braavos – she had friends there.”

 

In the back of Nymeria’s head, her girl is touched that the growly older man remembered what she had once told him.

 

Howland Reed nods, and ignores the shifting of the regular wolves.  “Lady Sansa passed through here some time ago to be married to Roose Bolton’s bastard.  I have not heard good things about their marriage.”

 

The scent that comes off of the Hound at that puts Nymeria’s ears back and hackles up – the sheer ferociousness of his rage at that sentence is a terrible thing.

 

“He won’t be in power for long,” He growls low, as wild as any member of the pack.

 

Howland watches him calmly.  “Then I wish you good luck in your endeavours.  Should you see any of Ned’s children, please let them know that the Neck still remains loyal to House Stark.  The Mormonts, Manderlys, and all of the Mountain Clans will all back them as well – especially with Nymeria to remind everyone to whom we owe the North.  Safe travels, Sandor Clegane.”

 

Once again, they move North.

 

* * *

 

 

The Lord of Winterfell is the Bastard of Bolton, and all of the intelligence that Arya has gathered has led her to add his name to her List.  The three days of hard riding she had done from White Harbor to Winterfell, she had been recreating her childhood home in her head, trying to recall every secret passage way, every single entry-point, conventional and otherwise, the sounds and colours and backdrops, until Arya is certain that she can blend in anywhere.

 

Once she hits the Wolfswood, she hides her mount and leaves Ghita’s face in place.  With this face she intends to gather information. She spends three days in Wintertown doing just that, and three nights sneaking through the shadowed corridors of her childhood home and refamiliarizing herself with the castle and all its secrets, and discovers that she missed the chance to rescue her sister as well by only a few days.  On the fourth day, Smalljon Umber arrives at Winterfell, so Arya disguises herself as a server and sneaks in.  She finds out that it is baby Rickon that the traitor has brought as a bargaining chip, and the Wildling woman who has been looking after him.  Ramsay is _very_ excited about this, and his good humour sends chills running up and down Arya’s back, arms and neck, raises her hackles and has her half-slipping in to Nymeria’s skin to beg her to hurry.  

 

She is surprised to find that Nymeria is already past Winterfell, and has found Shaggydog in the northernmost section of the Wolfswood.  The Hound is being pushed forward by an equally impatient Nymeria – an arrow sticks out of Shaggy’s flank, and there are bloody, matted stains littering his dark fur, and man-paws are better suited to this task than a wolf’s.  She leaves the Hound with Shaggydog, leaves all forty-seven of the actual dogs, the five pups and three of the wolves as their protection ( _Good-Mother-*particular pitched whine*_ and two males), and then wheels south.  Back to Winterfell; back to Arya.  She ignores the Hound’s roars as the pack disappears south.

 

As quick as a deer and as silent as a shadow, Arya slips through deserted corridors until she can finally duck out of the window of what was once Robb’s room.  Bran had shown her this once in a fit of boredom, how to sneak from each of their bedrooms in to Mother and Father’s chambers without every using a door; she chose Robb’s simply because it was closest, and left her exposed less than any other window might.  She had heard Ramsay order the Wildling woman be scrubbed and then brought to him in _his chambers_ , and had easily deduced that he meant her parents room.  Taking Bran’s “short-cut”, Arya sneaks in and tucks herself away in the shadows at the back of the room, out of the way and facing the door.

 

_The man who fears losing has already lost_ , Syrio’s voice drifted to her from the past.  Her training in the House helped her untap the almost overlooked magic of being unnoticeable – something that all bastards of the Seven Kingdoms had managed to unlock, to some degree, on their own.  _Calm as still water; I am dust, I am stone, I am the background_.  _I am No One, I am nothing_.

 

Eventually her patience is rewarded.

 

Ramsay enters, putters around with some paperwork and writes a letter.  A terrified servant serves him a small lunch, and departs as quickly as possible to the Maesters Tower to post the letter.  As Ramsay is cutting in to an apple to finish up, Osha is brought in in barely more than a shift, looking clean and perfectly nonchalant.  But Arya is now a master of reading people’s faces, and she can see that calculating, desperate gleam in the Wilding’s eyes.

 

She watches their interaction, as this woman kisses and _plays_ with the Bastard, and she sees Osha’s eyes cut to the paring knife on the table.  Of course – this woman has been looking after Rickon for nearly five years now, and she is a Wildling.  She is a Northerner, and they are nothing if not _loyal_.

 

Boltons are not.  Arya might not have Sansa’s memory for all the Houses and their histories, but she knows the North, and she knows the scariest stories of the Houses pasts, the Old Kings.  She knows why the Boltons bare the Flayed Man for their sigil, knows why they were the Red Kings, and knows why Roose, the _traitor_ , was called the Leech Lord.  So Arya will help this Wild woman who protected her baby brother, and then she will reclaim her family’s home.

 

Quick as a snake and as silent as No One, Arya darts forward and slits Ramsay’s throat from ear to ear, even as he’s raising his own dagger to cut Osha.  She grabs his hand, vice-like, and whispers in his ear, “My name is Arya Stark.  This is for my brothers and sister, _bastard_.”

 

Osha keeps her mouth glued to Ramsay’s until he has breathed his last, covers his death rattles with moans.  Once he is finished, she raises herself carefully from his body, spits out blood, and never once takes her eyes off of Arya.

 

 “Rickon?”  Arya asks, almost gently.

 

“The little wolf was taken to the dungeons, I think.  Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

 

“Many times over,” Arya grins back at her.  “But so is Rickon.  The only reason I went to Braavos was because I thought I didn’t have anyone left, and I couldn’t get to the Wall and Jon.  Rickon is the reason I came back.  Help me shift him?”

 

“What are you going to do with him?”

 

“I’m going to steal his face and retake this castle.” Arya answers simply, tearing a rag from his sheets and beginning to clean his face.  “Will you help me?”

 

_“Steal_ his face?” Osha demands, tying the paring knife to her calf and Ramsay’s dagger to her forearm.  “What bloodmagic is that?”

 

“Braavosi, I think.  Or, perhaps Valyrian, at it’s roots.  It doesn’t matter – tell me all you can of him.  Please.”

 

“He was wedded to your sister.  We heard about it when we was with the Umbers.  They were good to us only until they could find a way to lock Shaggy up, and then we was tucked into the dungeons until they could find something to do with us, and even we heard what that pale-eyed freak was doing to her.  Heard she would scream every night from when they wed to when she escaped, but no one was game to do anything against the Boltons.  This one’s father killed your brother the King, but then this one killed his father too, and his step-mother and baby brother.  I hear the dungeons are where he does his torturing – heard they had that Theon Greyjoy, but _he_ helped get your sister out when Stannis attacked.”

 

As Osha is speaking, Arya finishes cleaning the face, and then proceeds to remove it with her own dagger, making sure to cut all the way round in order to collect the hair.

 

“Thank you,” Arya tells her quietly.  “Can you make it sound like you’re having sex with him?  I need noise for cover.”

 

Osha grins quickly, wicked sharp, and then starts moving to the bed, moaning loudly.  Arya had spent enough time in brothels over the years to know a convincing act when she heard it.  With a harsh grin of her own, Arya began to quickly rifle through his desk, skim-reading what she could, and taking mental notes of what she would need to translate later.

 

Eventually she signals Osha to “finish”, and heads back over to the body, stripping him and pulling the clothes on over her own.  “Thank you.  I – I need to maintain a cover, so I need to send you down to the dungeons, but I can’t escort you myself.  If I put you in with Rickon, can you tell him that I’m here?  That I love him and miss him, and I’ll do everything I can to keep him safe.  Please?”

 

“I can do that.”  The woman says calmly, biting in to Ramsay’s apple.

 

“Can – ”  Arya began, stopped, and then whispered, “What does he look like now?  Rickon.”

 

“A bit like your King brother,” Osha says around a mouthful.  “Them red curls of his are as wild as they was when he was a pup, but his eyes have changed a fair bit – they’re almost like yours, but a bit bluer, I think; it’s a pretty blue-grey.  Looks a bit like the sea sometimes, them – whitecaps?  He’s tall now, too, near as tall as me, for all he’s one and ten.  Shot up like a weed, so I made him learn how to make his own clothes.  Him and that wolf o’ his, they was close, warg close.  He’s not gonna be good, after what Smalljon did to Shaggy.”

 

“Warg?”  Arya asks around a choked up throat.  She’s trying to picture little baby Rickon, and all she can imagine is Robb with a black direwolf.  But she knows this word, warg, and senses this to be of great import.

 

“Skinchanger.  Someone who can walk in the skin of an animal.  Rickon could do it with Shaggydog in his dreams, and knew whatever the wolf knew.  Bran, he could do it with Summer and with others.  I heard Robb and Grey Wind could do something similar, too.”

 

“When I was in Braavos,” Arya whispers, “I had my eyesight taken from me for a time.  I used a cat to help me see, in the beginning.  But I’ve always seen Nymeria in my dreams.  She called to me, told me to come back to Westeros for the Black Brother – Shaggydog.  He’s fine, by the way.  Nymeria found him, and has a man with her who can stitch him back up, and she left some of the pack behind to protect them.”

 

“How’re you going to take this castle?”  Osha askes carefully, mouth full.

 

Arya pauses, and thinks deeply.  She has plenty of strategies, and she thinks to run them by this Osha to see what her take is on each plan.

 

“There are many options.”  She settles on finally.  “I could call everyone who supports the Boltons in for a feast, poison the wine and have them drink that.  But that’s what I had thought to do to the Freys, and I don’t know how many of the people here might still be loyal to House Stark, and are just pretending loyalty to Ramsay.  I’d also thought about just cutting the throats of the Bolton men and the attending Lords in their sleep, just ask ‘em who they truly serve, but that won’t work.  I could even do an announcement that I have Rickon, the last trueborn son of Ned Stark, in my dungeons, and see what sort of reactions that gets me, and kill off the ones who aren’t still loyal to my family.  Or, I could even use the wolves to terrify them, start a whisper compaign with the smallfolk about how only those loyal to the Starks will survive, and ask the pack to remove the others.  The simplest option, of course, would be to mount this head atop our outer wall and work from there.  I hadn’t really decided yet.” 

 

“You are vicious, aren’t ya?” Osha says approvingly.

 

“I want to avenge my family,” Arya answers honestly.  “And I want to protect those who remain.”

 

Osha nods a few times, mulling over Arya’s plans.  “I’m a Free woman.  We’re simple folk, up past that Wall o’ yours.  I’d just stick him up where they put your Ser Rodrik’s head, and watch the rats scamper.”

 

Arya nods slowly.  Osha’s answer has merit, of course – Arya wanted to save the poison for the Freys, wanted to use the tale of the Rat King, _wanted_ to see their faces when they realised that the North truly remembered.  Waking and killing men in the night may have suited the House, but it could not serve House Stark – Nymeria had been right to say that Arya had been lone-wolf for too long.  So, perhaps a combination would be best.  Play the part of Ramsay today, place his face back atop a severed head tonight, loose the wolves around these walls from the hour of the wolf till dawn, and watch as the household panicked.

 

“A good plan.  The screams of wolves are frightful things, and to find the Lord’s head after such a night would be… troubling.” Arya’s smile is one she saw on the Waif’s face when she contemplated killing Arya, one she has felt on Nymeria’s face against swordsmen.  Osha’s smile matches it.  “Well then.  Valar Morghulis.”

 

* * *

 

 

It goes even better than Arya had hoped.  Nymeria’s pack had had a great deal of fun themselves, singing the wolfsongs as though they meant for Summer and Ghost to hear it beyond the Wall, for Lady’s and Grey Wind's spirits to partake from Death’s embrace.  Arya had loathed herself most yesterday afternoon, for the farce of playing Ramsay Snow, but had come to enjoy herself throughout the night.  Ramsay’s body had been arranged on the bed, the head spitted on the wall, Rickon and Osha freed and tucked away, and herself once again donning Ghita’s face in the kitchens. 

 

The reunion with Rickon had been bittersweet – he looked more like Robb than the child she remembered, and he remembered almost nothing of her except she had once bested Bran at archery, and that she had named her wolf for a warrior queen.  In fact, he had trusted in Nymeria more than he had trusted in Arya, which had stung.  _That_ announcement had convinced Arya to be less of No One and more of herself – the most she could remember being since Ned Stark’s head had left his body.  There was to be no more lone-wolf for Arya Stark from here on out.  The princess of Winterfell was about to become Alpha of the pack of the Northern Lords, had one of her beloved little brothers returned to her, and she could no longer afford to be the shade she had been in Braavos.

 

Those who were loyal to Ramsay are panicking, and those who served for lack of a better choice are panicking.  None know who is responsible, none know which allegiance will let them live.  Arya tries not to let that little, terrible wyrm in her heart enjoy _that_ too much.  The Pack stopped their howls at dawn, and resumed again at sunset.  The men were discouraged, and not even the pillow girls could distract anyone from the terrible song.  At Osha’s and Rickon’s encouragement, Arya took Karstark’s head that night, and Smalljon’s the next, with the wolves singing all the while.  The talk she picked up said that few of the other Lords backed the Boltons out of anything more than necessity, with the exception of Lady Dustin.  Ghita’s face gets Arya in to her chambers, a few drops in the Lady’s tea gets a story, and without any regret, Arya adds another head to the wall and decides to sort out the matter of inheritance later.  On the fifth day, the head torturer and flayer of the dungeons is put atop the wall too.  The sixth, Ramsay’s next-best torturer, and all of the Bolton banners are _burning_.

 

People are well and truly talking about running, now, and that little wyrm raises its head once again.  Arya tries not to let it get to her, and Nymeria’s presence in her head calms her some.  So it is on the seventh day that Arya, Rickon and Osha take their place on the Winterfell dais.  Ghita’s face had been used to assure the cooks that the dais would be sat at, and all of Arya’s practice in Braavos was needed to keep the smug expression off of her face.  The order had been sent to gather all the living souls to the main hall, and the expression on their faces was _priceless_.  Arya wished desperately to have Jon and Bran and Robb by her side too, so that they might fully appreciate the hilarity of the situation.  Arya’s mood was so buoyed that she even wished for Sansa – bratty and eternally thirteen in Arya’s mind eye.

 

There were shouted questions and demands and _Underfoot_ and _Horseface_ and _Stark!_   Arya raised her own hand, however, confident as her mother, calm as her father, and the hubbub quiets.  Needle’s weight on her hip was as reassuring as it ever had been, and Rickon’s warmth at her side gave her more meaning than her own desire to survive. 

 

The room is silent.

 

“The North remembers.  You remember our father, Lord Eddard, and our mother, Lady Catelyn.  You know House Stark, and you know us, know Arya and Rickon Stark.  Ramsay Snow is dead by my hand.  Harald Karstark is dead by my hand.  Smalljon Umber is dead by my hand.  Barbrey Dustin is dead by my hand.  Shall I continue?”  She is met with silent stares and pale faces.  “When I was eleven, I watched Ilyn Payne take my father’s head – _your liege lord’s head_ – with his own sword.  I escaped only by luck.  I took my first life.  And time after time after _time_ , I had to hear from gossip that my family was dead.  I heard that my home was sacked, and my little brothers’ dead with it.  I heard that my sister was married to the Imp.  I made it to the Twins in time to see my mother’s body tossed in to the river, naked, to see my brother’s direwolf killed and his body paraded around with that same direwolf’s head sewn atop his shoulders.  I killed one of the men who did that.  I heard my half-brother was lost beyond the Wall.  And so I went across the sea.  I had friends in Braavos, in the House of Black and White.”

 

Arya allows a moment of silence, and watches as understanding blooms on the faces before her.  She feels Rickon glance up at her face, keeps her own blank, ignores his nudging elbow.

 

“My wolves have been in the North for weeks.  You have listened to them, this last sevennight.  They are led by my own direwolf, Nymeria.  She will be joined shortly by Rickon’s wolf, Shaggydog.  Smalljon tried to kill him and was … unsuccessful.”  The silence stretches once again.  “You must have questions?  … No?  Rickon, anything?  Osha?”  Two heads shake.  “Hmm.  Once again there is a Stark in Winterfell – there’s two, when all the world thought there was none.  I intend to keep Starks in Winterfell for a _very_ long time to come.  I want people to continue as they were under the rule of my father – I want people preparing for Winter as best they can, and I want the Wintertown to be shoaled up.  My wolves know what they can and cannot eat, but even they will give way to temptation.  I want riders sent out to all the crofters to inform them about the pack that will guard the North from now on.  Rickon and I will take our meals in the hall with everybody else, and at each meal I would have someone sit with us and tell us of the week’s occurance, as with our own father.  On the fifth day of each week, I would ask that any complaints be brought forward so that we may offer council or insight.  Does this agree with everyone?”

 

There are murmured _yes m’lady_ s.  “Now I know you are lying.  No one ever completely agrees with their lords.  Come – what ails do you have with me so far?”

 

One of the stablehands is finally brave enough.  “Lady Stark, the dungeons?”

 

“Will be emptied today.  Those _beasts_ of Ramsay’s shall be put down, too, and can either go in to a stew or to the wolfpack, I don’t care.  Anything else?”

 

There were shifty looks and nudging elbows.  “Milady,” The Kennelmaster began tentatively.  “Your sister, the Lady Sansa, would be the next in line for Winterfell – that’s part of why they married her to Lord Ramsey.”

 

“You are correct,” Arya nods to him.  “Forgive me, but where is she?  I understood that she was no longer at Winterfell.”

 

“Aye, milady, she and Reek – that is, Theon Greyjoy – they escaped not long before Lord Umber’s party arrived.  They say she’s gone to the Wall, if the Wild hasn’t gotten her.”

 

Rickon glances up at Arya, eyes flashing through a number of emotions.

 

(He remembers Sansa better than Arya only by a little bit, which also stings.  He knows she looks like Mother, that she used to sing to him and let him play with her long red hair, that her direwolf died early.  He has been anxious to find Sansa, and nothing Arya says on the matter has been able to calm him properly.)

 

“The pack is searching for her as we speak.  I intend to send a letter to our brother Jon at the Wall as well – I understand he is the Lord Commander now.  Is there anything else?  Very well.  Break your fasts, and go about your day as normal.  I will see you all at lunch.  Maester, steward, I would speak with you this morning once you are free, if you please.”

 

The servants mill about uncertainly, only eating out of a desire to not go without.  Arya takes Rickon’s hand under the table where no one can see, and gives him a reassuring squeeze.  Quietly, Arya questions her baby brother about how well he remembers his letters (very little) and his other lessons from Maester Luwin (even less).  His swordplay with Ser Rodrik he remembers bits and pieces of, his archery he remembers better only due to Osha’s tutelage.  Thanks to Osha, he is instead quite skilled at the pike, and Arya askes him if he would like to learn the staffwork she had been taught in Braavos.  By the end of the meal, Arya has decided that she will help Rickon and Osha both with their letters and numbers during mealtimes, and would just let Rickon learn everything else by _doing_ throughout the day.

 

After breakfast, for example, she has the steward and Maester walk the three of them through an inventory of Winterfell’s stores, and uses this to help teach Rickon how much food is needed for how many people for how long – planning long-term, and for more than a handful of people, is an almost foreign concept to him after living as a Wildling for so long.  With the Maester, they have to carefully word the letters that they want to send to Jon at the Wall, and to the Lords of the North, and figure out just how much information they want to share with their Lords – and of course, there is the issues of inheritance, since Arya has beheaded the Lords of Karhold, Last Hearth, and Barrowtown.

 

“The Greatjon died protecting Robb,” Arya tells Rickon, pointing to The Twins on a map of the Seven Kingdoms.  “Here.  Their Holdfast, Last Hearth, is there.  Smalljon was next in line after his father.  Had he no children, one of his brothers or even one of his sisters would have inherited.  The Greatjon’s Uncles and their get would have come next.  Luckily for us, though, he had a son, Ned, after our father.  Did you meet him at all?”

 

Rickon is scowling at the map, his eyes tracing the lines fiercely to commit the image to memory.

 

“Aye, he seemed alright – he was more scared of his father than anything.  I could smell fear on him all the time.  He would sneak in to the dungeons to speak to me.  He said I was the rightful leigelord, and that his father shouldn’t have done what he did.”

 

Arya nods approvingly.  “Good.  We’ll write to him to let him know that he is the new Lord, and have his father’s bones sent back as a sign of good faith.  We’ll keep the head, though, as a warning.”

 

Rickon gives her a wolf grin, all teeth, and asks about the Karstarks.

 

Arya points to the Riverlands.  “This is Riverrun, where Mother was born.  This is the Karhold.  Rickard Karstark, the last Lord, killed prisoners Robb was going to ransom, so Robb took his head.  Rickard’s elder sons, Harrion and Torrhen, both died fighting for Robb.  Old Rickard had a brother and nephews that the title could pass to, but Harald had a daughter, Alys.”

 

“She’s next in line?”  Rickon asked.  

 

“Aye.  We’ll write to her too, but we might have her come to Winterfell and swear allegiance to the Starks before we make her the Lady.”

 

“Should we have Ned come too?”

 

Chewing her lip, Arya nods.  “It’s for the best.  We can’t let it look like we’re favouring the Umbers, or letting them get off easy, either.”

 

“You took their Lord’s head,” Rickon said, puzzled.

 

“It might be considered a favour, and we could be called weak for not following through and making sure the right oaths are sworn.  We can’t trust in people’s good nature, Rickon, even in the North.  You can’t pick a monster just by looking at them.”

 

Her baby brother nods in understanding, furrows his brow and asks, “What about the lady you killed?”

 

“Barbrey Dustin of Barrowtown.  Here.  She felt slighted because Uncle Brandon was betrothed to Mother, even though she gave him her maidenhead, and then Father married Mother when Uncle Brandon died.  Her husband died protecting Father during Robert’s Rebellion, and instead of bringing back her husband’s bones, Father only returned his horse.  He died before they could have any heirs, and his brothers also died fighting for Father…”  Arya trails off, and tries to remember her Houses as best she can.  _I wish Sansa was here for this_ , she thought.  _She was always the best at this!_

 

“House Dustin was one of the oldest in the North,” She finally said.  “They say they came from the First King of the First Men, and from the Barrow Kings who followed.  We’ll have to look through the lineage books to see if there aren’t any left through the female line.”

 

“So another House will take over?”

 

“Almost.  The new heir, if we can find one, will take the Dustin name.  If the Lady Barbrey’s goodfather had any sisters or nieces, we’ll see if those women had any second sons or daughters, and then see if _they_ had any children.  If we’re lucky, there’ll be a daughter or younger son who will be happy to run Barrowtown for us.”

 

“And the Dreadfort?”

 

“By law it belongs to Sansa as Ramsey’s widow.  If she doesn’t want it, they say that Jon let Wildlings over the Wall, they can have it.”

 

“They won’t want it,” Osha pipes up.  “The Free Folk have no holdings with holdfasts.”

 

“Even the King?”  Arya asks, curious.  “Mance something, wasn’t it?”

 

“Mance Rayder.  Stannis killed him though, it’s said.”

 

“There isn’t another King?”

 

“Not that I’ve heard.  Besides, I can’t see too many of ‘em wanting to live inside them stone walls.”

 

“Winter is coming,” Arya shrugs.  “I’m sure they won’t mind it too terribly, for a little while.”

 

“My lady, my lord,” Maester Wolkan begins hesitatingly.  “There is also the issue of inheritance to Castle Hornwood.”

 

“Hornwood?”  Arya demanded.  “What happened there?”

 

“Lord Ramsay was married to the widowed Lady Hornwood,” Wolkan said delicately.  “She, ah, did not – ”

 

“She died?” Arya asked bluntly.  “How?”

 

“She starved, my lady,” Wolkan whispered.  “Though her marriage was legal in the eyes of men and gods, and her will named Lord Ramsay as her heir.”

 

Arya’s eyes narrowed.  “So you’re saying that Sansa is heir to the Dreadfort, Hornwood Castle, _and_ Winterfell?  Seven hells, no, she’d go mad.  There was a Hornwood bastard, wasn’t there?”

 

“Yes, my lady!”

 

“Does he live?”

 

“Yes – he was fostered at Deepwood Motte until the Ironborn attacked, and then was kept prisoner until the Motte was recovered.”

 

Arya nods quickly.  “Bring me pen and paper, ravens and a book of genealogy, please.  Now.”

 

The Maester practically runs away, and Rickon turns to her curiously.  “What are you going to do?”

 

“I’m going to summon the Hornwood bastard here too so that we can meet him, and make him the Lord.  We’ll have to see if he’s been educated first, and send ravens to find out what sort of state Hornwood is in.”

 

“How much food, and everything?”  Rickon tries.  Arya smiles at him and ruffles his hair affectionately.  He grins back at her, then frowns and asks, “But, can you do that?  Make a Bastard the Lord?”

 

“Ramsay was Lord here, wasn’t he?”

 

“He was legitimised by the King,” Osha said from where she was cleaning her nails with a dagger.  “Or something.”

 

“We can’t exactly write to _him_ , now can we?”  Arya scowls.

 

“Your brother was King,” Osha offers.  “Doesn’t that mean one of you are … something?”

 

Arya freezes.  “… yes.  We were called _prince_ and _princess_ before.  Rickon, you’re the boy – want to be King?”

 

“Nope,” her brother says carelessly, picking his nose.  “You can be the next King.”

 

Arya makes a high-pitched noise in the back of her throat.

 

“You Southerners like symbols though,” Osha mused, inspecting her cleaned nails.  “You’ll need a crown.” 

 

“Robb had one, didn’t he?”  Rickon pipes.  “Wear his.”

 

“It’ll be at the Twins,” Arya says.  “… I’ll wait for Shaggy and the Hound to come, and try and teach you as much as I can first, and then I’ll go to get it.  It shouldn’t take more than a week if I ride Nymeria there.”

 

“Take some of the pack with you too.”  Rickon says firmly.

 

“I won’t need them.  I’m going to poison the Freys, not battle them.”

 

“We have a cousin there though, don’t we?”

 

“Aye, apparently.  What, do you want me to retake Riverrun too?”

 

There is a light in Rickon’s eyes that she had seen in Robb's and Jon’s in the practice yard; in Sansa’s when she was trying to master a new stitch or song; in Bran’s when he was trying to figure out how to get to the newest heights; in her own, she was sure, when she was looking at how to get away with her next bit of _unladylike behaviour_.  It was calculating, sly, and wolfish.  It was _hungry._   “Give half of the pack back to the Riverlands.  Have vengeance on the Freys’ who killed our family, and leave someone of your picking in charge of the Twins and loyal to Riverrun.  Give Uncle Edmure back his wife and son, and allow them a chance to remove the Lannisters from their lands.  Get Robb’s crown, and come back in time to deal with the Lords.”

 

Arya’s returning smile was vicious.  “Careful, little brother.  They’ll call you the Cunning Wolf before you know it.  Alright then.  Two days for Shaggy and Clegane to arrive, and then I’ll go.  Ah, Maester Wolkan!  Just on the table there.”

 

“My lady, you won’t have me write it?”  The Maester asked, shocked.

 

“What’s the point of knowing how to read and write, if I don’t do it myself?”  Arya scoffed.  “Rickon, here.  We’ll write to the Umbers first they’re furthest away – Maester, a seal, please?”

 

“At once, my lady!”

 

* * *

 

Nymeria had left him near a week ago with a monstrous black direwolf stuck full of arrows, three regular wolves, the five half-grown pups, and forty-seven dogs.  Sandor wasn’t overly impressed, especially when it became apparent that the whole reason he had been brought North was so he could play nursemaid to the black beast.

 

Once the arrows were out, the great direwolf had taken a day to recover, and then seemed ready to head back down to Winterfell.  One of the dogs had, _somehow_ , fetched a sturdy horse that had tolerated the wolves enough for Sandor to hop on it and match the pack’s speed.  It had taken eight days all told, but finally the walls of Winterfell were before them, surrounded by that pack of hundreds.  Another member of the pack – one of the wolves who had left with Nymeria – was waiting for them with a big doggie grin on it’s face.  With a low yip, the new wolf led them straight up the road and through the fucking gates, and waiting for them was the she-wolf herself – both of them.

 

“Shaggy!”  A tall boy-child with Tully-red curls launches himself at the monstrous direwolf, and the pair fall over in a cacophony of giggles, growls and human snarls.

 

There’s a dry snort from behind him, and there’s the wolf-girl, leaning up against her own direwolf.  She’s not grown much since he last saw her, though Sandor can see that she has put weight on from finally receiving regular meals, and for now has left behind her skeletal thinness from their time in the Riverlands.

 

“Thank you for looking after Shaggydog, even though Nymeria didn’t exactly give you much to work with.”

 

“What, did the beast talk to you?”  He scoffs.

 

Arya smirks at him.  “Something like that.  I have another favour to ask of you, though.”

 

He sneers at her.  “Why should I?  I asked you for a favour once that never happened.”

 

Arya looks at him with those hard Stark-grey eyes.  The anger that had once defined her was not present – her face was blank, without even that faint shimmer of humour tucked in the corner of her eyes that he remembered from the last few months of their shared company.

 

“You asked me for the gift of the Many Faced God.”  Arya agrees.  “I did not give it to you.  I decided that if you were meant to die, you would, and if you didn’t, then I would take you off of my list.”

 

“How generous,” He snarls.

 

“There are only three names left,” Arya continues to keep that calm look on her face, one hand buried in Nymeria’s fur and the other resting lightly on her Needle’s hilt.  “Cersei Lannister, Walder Frey, and Gregor Clegane.”

 

This is a much smaller list than he is used to hearing from her.  He had heard stories when he was recovering with Septon Rae, and decides to pry a little.  “They say Meryn Trant died in Braavos.”  It is a leading statement, the sort of casual not-quite-bait that he had used on her in the past.

 

“In a whorehouse,” Arya says brightly.  “Belly stuck full of holes, both eyes gutted, and his throat slit at the last moment.”

 

“It was you?” He asks curiously – he remembers her anger at missing the chance to kill Joffrey, and knew that Trant had also been someone she desperately wanted to kill herself.

 

“Aye, it was.  I’ll tell you about it over some ale later, if you want.”  She straightens, and says, “I need my horse back first, though.”

 

“This nag?  A dog brought it to me.”

 

“The pack are loyal to Nymeria, and by extension to me.  That horse was a gift, it’ll need to be returned eventually.”  One of the pups is sniffing at the end of her cloak curiously; she bends down to let it sniff her hand, and to ruffle behind its’ ears.  “That favour I need – I’ll put you in back in contact with my sister, so long as you help protect my baby brother for me while I’m gone.”

 

“Where’re you going?  How long?”

 

“Shouldn’t be more than a week, but Rickon knows how to check for an actual date if I’m gone to long.”  Picking up a set of saddlebags and a bed-wrap by her feet, Arya moves towards him, her great wolf at her heels.  She and the wolf both loosed a loud howl, answered by the wolves.  Half of the pack that had been around the castle separated from the rest and ran South; Arya looked him in the eye, expression suddenly fierce.  “Look after Rickon.  I’ll be back as soon as I can.  The rest of the pack are searching for Sansa, and will let Shaggy know what they find.  Don’t die on me.”  She punched his shoulder affectionately, ruffled her little brother’s hair as she moved out of the courtyard, and swung herself atop Nymeria.  “Winter is coming, Rickon!  Osha, Sandor, look after him!”

 

The great direwolf wheeled away, a second howl echoing eerily off of the masonry and around the moors. 

 

Sandor turns to look at the boy beside him, and decided to try again.  “Where’s she going?” 

 

“I’ll tell you over lunch,” Rickon says, his face an obvious copy of his sister’s blank mask.  “Come on – you like chicken?  Arya had some prepared for you.”

 

* * *

 

 

Until Samwell Tarly’s return to act as Maester of the Night’s Watch, the Lord Commander, Eddison Tollet, had taken it upon himself to look after the ravens.  Typically a job for the stewards, Edd was doing it to make sure that he actually _received_ the letters coming through. 

 

Jon, his sister and the Wildlings had all left two days, and it looked as though they had gone just before something truly interesting could come their way. 

 

Edd was opening and reading all of the ravenscrolls.  After Jon’s departure, a letter had come addressed to him from Winterfell – Edd had assumed it was some other piece of piss from Ramsay Bolton, except for the Direwolf seal on the outside in black wax.  Once he was safely back in the Commander’s office, Edd had gone through the correspondence that was meant for him – promises of men from some of the Northern Lords, queries about whether it was _true_ that Jon Snow had let Wildlings past the Wall – before finally opening that letter for Jon.

 

**_Ghost, Lady_ **

**_In Winter we must protect ourselves; look after one another.  First lesson:  stick them with the pointy end.  Come home – Lady, you have quite a bit of inheritance._ **

**_Nymeria and Shaggydog_ **

 

Once upon a time, Jon had told Edd and their friends about the direwolf pups he had discovered, and how they had matched up against himself and his trueborn siblings.  Grey Wind, Lady, Nymeria, Summer, Shaggydog, and Ghost the odd-one-out.  In a literal sense, if someone wanted a very basic code that only the Starks and their very closest allies could understand, this was the way to go about it.  Edd assumed that the other bits about Winter and lessons were references to things only the Starks themselves would know, as confirmation that whoever had written the letter was who they claimed to be – the Lady Arya, most like.  Jon’s favourite sibling, who no-one had heard about since Ned Stark’s execution.

 

This was definitely something Edd had to pass on – the only trouble was, where on earth had Jon and Sansa gone after the Wildling camp?!

 


	2. Quiet as a Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hound meets Wild Wolf. Lost Wolf has vengeance, King in the North becomes King of the Trident, and we sow the seeds for the future.
> 
> (@ D&D THIS IS FORESHADOWING. FUCKING FOLLOW THROUGH YA DRONGO. DON'T WASTE CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT FOR SHOCK VALUE!! dickheads)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the lovely reviews on the last chapter! However, I’m not really sure how to take all of the questions about whether I had abandoned Kings, Sisters and Arya the Unlikely, and am trying to remain positive that everyone is enjoying my writing. If I don’t touch my fics for more than twelve months, ok, asking about abandonment is a valid question. If I updated the week/month before, please just assume that I’m working on the next chapter – I am a fairly slow updater. I work in tourism, and our season just started. Huge shout out to young Miss Molly and her granny Irish Ann for proofreading, sound boarding, and feeding me. You should see the plot boards.
> 
> also, FUCK YOU EPISODE FIVE YOU ABSOLUTE CACTUS SHIT!!

 

* * *

 

The wildling woman who guards the youngest Stark is called Osha, and by the time they have made it to the dais for lunch, she has twice offered Sandor a roll in the hay.  Sandor doesn’t know how to answer that question, so he has pretended not to have heard her on both occasions, and had to put up with the tawny woman’s cackling.

 

Despite his colouring, the little lordling reminds him more of the Wolf-Girl than the Little Bird – fierce and sly, often being reminded to use his manners, with a banked anger burning in his eyes like coals in the hearth at midnight.  Rickon Stark uses a few scattered pleases and thank yous to get them lunch, and then begins tearing in to the food as though someone will take it off of him if he is too slow.

 

“We’re in a fucking castle.”  He growls at the boy.  “You don’t need to eat like that.  You’re the lord here, no one will deny you food.”  Cheeks stuffed full to bursting, the brat actually _growls_ at him when Sandor tries to hand him his knife and fork.  Sandor growls right back.  “How old are you, boy?  Thirteen, fourteen?”

 

Osha, who had been eating just as quickly, if a little less explosively, grunted out, “One-and-ten, he is.”

 

“Ah, a tall man you’ll be, then.”  Sandor says.  “I knew your sister at that age – tiny, weedy little thing.  She hasn’t grown much since.”

 

“Arya’s gonna be the King until Bran comes back,” Rickon Stark says amongst a shower of crumbs.  “Don’t talk about my sister like that.”

 

“Knew the older one too,” Sandor continues deliberately, flicking crumbs off of his own plate, dragging it closer and placing one hand up as a blockade. 

 

“Sansa?”

 

“Aye, that’s her.  I tried to keep her safe from the cunts down in Kings Landing, and sometimes I could.  A lot of the times I couldn’t.  I tried to get her out of there, and when that didn’t work, I rescued the Wolf-Girl.  Tried to get her to your King brother and mother, but we got there too late.  Tried to get her to your aunt in the Eyrie, and was too late then too.  We ran out of money, and we ran out of food.  We knew hunger, like you have, but you don’t see me or her eating like some wild thing from the forest.”

 

Rickon eyes him warily, and actually finishes chewing and swallowing his mouthful before he speaks again.

 

“So you want me to slow down, in the man-rocks?”

 

“The fucks a – yeah, fine, whatever you want to call a fucking building.  If you’ve got a roof over your head or walls on either side, you eat like a proper little lord, d’you understand?”

 

Osha is watching him with those obsidian-bright eyes again, and Rickon is staring at him like a starving wolf.  An eleven-year-old should not look so predatory, and Sandor had spent enough time with a bloodthirsty Arya Stark to say that with a good deal of confidence and discomfort.

 

“Alright,” he finally agrees.  “But in return, will you teach me how to use a sword properly?  Arya said you were good.”

 

He considers saying _no_ , but it’s been a while since he taught anyone anything ( _this is where the heart is_ ) that he lets the nostalgia sway him.  “If you eat everything on your plate, slowly and with the cutlery.”

 

A chicken-filled mouth opens, and he hurriedly corrects, “Knife and fork, boy.  Those.  Now, where the buggering hell has your sister gone?”

 

“Sansa went North to Jon, we think,” the boy says as he awkwardly tries to use knife and fork to cut up his chicken.  “And Arya has gone to the Twins.”

 

The memory swims unbidden to the surface – the burning Direwolf flags, the screams of men cut down and alight, the glassy eyes of the tiny girl he held close to his chest as they galloped away from the slaughter.  “Why the _fuck_ would she willingly go back _there_?!”  He hisses.

 

“She’s going to get Robb’s crown back,” The little boy tells him solemnly, that dull-ember rage brightening to a roaring hearth.  “And she’s going to avenge the North.  We remember, Clegane.”

 

“And how’s she going to do that?”  Sandor snarls.  A vein of fear trickles down his spine.

 

“Poison,” Osha says from the other side of the boy.  “in the wine, she said.  Though she has something special for Walder Frey.”

 

“Special _how_?!”

 

“Something about a Rat King,” Osha shrugged.  “But I think she’s gonna steal his face, like she did Ramsay’s.”

 

 _Steal his face … I have friends in Braavos … I know a_ real _killer._

 

That trickle of fear down his spine now has a vice-grip on his heart.

 

“She went to the Faceless Men?”  He demands.

 

“She went from Saltpans to Braavos,” Rickon shrugs instead.  “She stayed in Braavos’ House of Black and White until we were captured, and then Nymeria called her back.  Will you help me with the sword later?”

 

“… Aye, boy,” Sandor agrees quietly.  “But I won’t go easy on you, understand?”

 

Rickon’s cheerful babble passed over and around him, and all Sandor could do was think on those little girls – one full of songs, the other full of rage, and both with a belly full of fear.  He had never been a religious man, despite Septon Rae’s best efforts, and yet he offered up a prayer to the Seven all the same.  _You keep these Starks that are left alive, and_ safe, _and bring them_ home, _you gods.  They have suffered well enough._

 

* * *

 

With fewer pack members and a much slighter weight on Nymeria’s back, the Pack was making great time.  As dusk was setting, they had already crossed in to the Barrowlands, and Arya and Nymeria expected them to hit the Neck by the same time tomorrow.  Hunting is easy for the Direwolf’s Pack, and Arya had packed well.  It is her nature now to preserve her food stores for as long as possible, however, so she only nibbles on a little bit of bread and cheese. 

 

The spruce trees here in the Barrows produce a sap that is rubbery, and can be chewed on to enjoy the flavour and trick the body into thinking itself full.  The inner bark is also edible, if not particularly tasty.  Maester Luwin had taught Arya of it once upon a time, and she takes the time to collect globules of the sap from a couple of the trees, wrapping it in the inner bark and slipping some in to her pockets, and the rest in to her sack.

 

Nymeria tugs at the edges of her mind, and Arya goes willingly.

 

 _Need to stop being lone wolf,_ Nymeria whispers.  _Will show you how to be Alpha.  Need to practice, for when the older sister comes back, and the White Brother_.

 

Arya sent back her confusion.  _Sansa is older than me.  So if she comes back, that means she would inherit Robb’s crown._

 

Nymeria scoffed at that, at such a human concept.  _You think I became Alpha because of my brothers?  Because of my dam or sire?  No!  I made these others see me,_ me _, as the best choice for Alpha.  You will have to do the same with your silly humans._

 

Wry amusement filled Arya’s chest at the actual disdain in her wolf’s mental voice.

 

_Prove your strength.  Take back the big man-rock of your dam, avenge your brother and punish your pack’s betrayers.  Help your pack survive the Winter, and then avenge your sire too._

 

Surviving the winter in the terms of a wolf meant shelter, food and water, company.  Which meant that Arya was going to need to have inventories conducted at every single castle, holdfast, hamlet and farm in the North, take stock of all of the stock, all the grains, all of the fruit and vegetables that had been harvested already.  She would have to speak properly with Lord Manderly and his granddaughters about trade agreements with Essos, Dorne and the Reach.  She knew from experience that the Riverlands would have to have agreements drawn up too, after the raids of the Lannister forces.

 

Fuck.  Was she about to make herself King of the Trident too?  Fucking Rickon, and his big ideas, and his stupid dreams.  She’d thought he was like her, a realist, and like Robb, a planner; but of course, Sansa had been his favourite when theirs was still a happy family.  He was a dreamer, and ambitious, and greedy and hungry as any of the wolf-kings of old.

 

Nymeria huffed a laugh at her.

 

 _The little wild brother_ is _greedy, is_ hungry _, is a wolf in a man’s cloak.  And he is right; he makes you a fine Beta._

 

 _You have no Beta_ , Arya observed, scowling. 

 

Nymeria bares her teeth.   _I don’t need it – my pack is hundreds strong.  Yours will be even bigger, and you cannot rule your men as I rule my wolves and dogs.  My lessons are just… guides._

 

The wolves were snacking – frogs, small rodents, ground-dwelling birds, just enough meat to give them energy until the pack could find something bigger to take down.  Nymeria had caught a quail earlier in the evening, just before Moat Cailin, and of course Arya had her bark and sap to nibble on.

 

_Alpha.  King.  Doesn’t matter what you term it, my Arya Stark.  You and I, we are going to rule our lands, save our people, and survive the Long Winter._

 

 _Aye_ , Arya thought back to her.  _We’re still here.  We’re here to stay._

 

* * *

 

Arya’s Hound had not lied, when he’d told Rickon that he would not hold back.  Initially he had walked Rickon through grips, strikes and blocks – easy, simple things that the little prince had once been taught by Ser Rodrik and his big brothers.  He had shown Rickon how to swing the blade, and then the dance had begun.

 

Dance was only a pretty term to dress up what was happening.  Rickon was a half-step away from being beaten more brutally than anything he had ever seen – if he slipped, if he was too slow, he could not say that the Hound would stop to spare him.  It was _thrilling_!

 

“Dog man!”  Osha called.  “Are you going to let the little Lord do his princeling duties any time today?”

 

The Hound pulled back, and Rickon scrambled to put distance between them himself, panting and grinning and flicking sweat out of his eyes.  Shaggy finally came forward, licking him all over as if Rickon were a newborn pup, which made him laugh.     

 

“Aye, alright.  Well then, boy, how was that?”

 

“Great!”  Rickon grinned back at him.  “Arya didn’t lie when she said you were good!  Did you train her like that too?  It doesn’t feel like anything she tried to teach me.”

 

“She taught you?”

 

“Aye, down in the crypts, where we were hiding.  Her style was more dance-like than this, but she said you travelled together for a while.”

 

“… Aye, we did.  I can’t say I much trained her in the blade.  Her water dancing was taught to her by a Braavosi.  Syria something.”

 

“And he died, didn’t he?”  The Hound only nods at that, and Rickon isn’t sure how to continue the conversation – so much of the time he spent with Osha and Shaggy was spent not talking, and if they had to communicate something, then they would use their bodies to do it.  The Hound doesn’t look like he knows much of the wolf-language, so Rickon takes a type of pity on him, and tries to use man-language instead. 

 

He needs to work on that, if he’s going to be surrounded by men again.

 

“Arya said you could help with the Lord stuff?”

 

“I can try.  What are you to work on, boy?”

 

“Reading.  Inheritance.  Stockpiles and arithmancy and _planning_.”

 

Learning to read is fun.  Seeing how the castles and lands pass from one hand to another is stupid, but he’s making himself learn.  Stocktaking is interesting, but arithmancy and planning are just dumb, and Rickon hates them.  Arya said he had to learn them though, so he’s trying his best, even if it is boring him to tears.

 

“Not a reader, boy?”

 

“It’s been so long since Mother and Maester Luwin taught me that I forgot it all,” he answers honestly.  “I had to learn other things, so I let it go; it wasn’t helpful.”

 

“I’ll bet.  Well, where are we going, then?”

 

“To the library for relearning letters, then to the stores to stocktake, then to the kitchens for reports, and _then_ we’ll go into town so I can talk to the smallfolk.”  Rickon pulled a face.  “It’s busy today.  I want people to forget that Arya is gone, and concentrate on getting the pack through the winter.”  Shaggy nudged his shoulder.  He wants Rickon to hop on his back, but Rickon is still worried about the wounds the Umber’s flying-claws caused, and wants Shaggy to heal faster, not slower.  So he gives his Direwolf a good scratch around the ears instead, and takes off at a trot. 

 

He is tired and sore from the lengthy spar, but he has been tired and sore before, and no doubt will be again.  All he needs is a drink of water, and maybe a snack, and he will be fine.

 

“Are you coming, Hound?”  He calls.  Osha joins him quickly, and with a put-upon sigh and grumbles about _brats_ and _cunts_ , the hulking man follows too.

 

Relearning his letters goes about as well as it has any other time – slow, boring, and almost condescending from Maester Wolkan, now that his scary sister is gone – and the stocktake of the stores is not greatly different to what they had anticipated it would be from _last_ weeks stocktake.  Rickon spends most of it sticking his nose into whatever he can so that Shaggy might smell everything, as the poor wolf has been banned from both the stores and the kitchens. 

 

And the kitchens!  Rickon spends the whole time pretending he isn’t drooling over the honeycakes that had been made for tonight’s desert, honestly, and he knows everybody else knows exactly what he was trying not to do, which is irksome.  The Hound only snorts at him and chivvies him from one task to another, but once they are making their way to the Wintertown, he gruffly gives Rickon a stolen cake and pushes him down the main road.  Rickon thanks him brightly and gives the old dog an affectionate headbutt, splitting the cake up carefully so that everyone has a bite, with Shaggy licking the crumbs and remaining honey drizzles from their hands.  Shaggy agrees with Rickon that the honeycakes are the best deserts, and Arya and her almond cakes can _suck it_.

 

Their first stop in Wintertown is the brothel, which makes the Hound choke. 

 

“I’m not letting you in _there_!  Your sisters would both string me up by my balls, and I wouldn’t stop ‘em!”

 

“Sansa might, but Arya won’t,” Rickon scolded.  “She’s the one who told me to go in here.  We need to make sure that the girls are being looked after properly, that everyone is healthy, and that the sums are all in order.  We’ll go to the next seamstress, then the masons, the carpenters, the markets, the farrier and the smith, and then the inn.  From there we can visit whatever farms are closest, and check the further ones tomorrow.”

 

There is a pained look on the old dog’s face, as though he isn’t sure how he is to respond to the information.  “Anyway, old dog, if Osha isn’t to your liking, I’m sure we’ll find you someone here,” Rickon called carelessly over his shoulder.  The Hound spluttered behind him and Osha cackled.  Shaggy collapsed with a huff by the front door, and Rickon let himself in.

 

The whores were just as shocked to see him as the Hound had been and tried to politely kick him out, but Rickon didn’t take offense.  His pelt was thick and his mind quick, so he looked at what he needed to and stuck his nose into each room while he was at it.  The whole place smelt like mating, and Rickon could feel Shaggy getting excited outside, but he ignored him.

 

“And how many how your girls were hurt by Ramsey?” Rickon asked the matron as he took down the rest of his figures in the little pocket book Arya had given him for this purpose.

 

“Three, m’lord,” the matron said, wringing her hands. 

 

“Did they leave any family behind?  Pups or litter-mates?”

 

“Pu - Babes?  Only the one, m’lord, but the babe was lost to the colic not long after we lost the mother.  The other two girls had nothing and no one.”

 

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Rickon said honestly, looking up from his painstakingly slow notes.  “Is there anything I can do?”

 

“No, Lord Rickon.  But we thank you.” The matron hesitated, then begged, “Only, could you move your Direwolf?  He’s not good for business, he turns the appetites.”

 

Rickon grins at that.  “Done.  Send a messenger for me should you need anything, though.  I mean it.  Well, old dog?”

 

“Fuck off,” the grump growled under his breath, leading the way out of the brothel.  Osha and Rickon laughed with each other all the way to the loomhouse.  Shaggy stuck his head inside of this wooden-little-man-rock, but the women inside screamed so much that he ducked back out again.  This time it was the Hound who roared with laughter, and Rickon couldn’t really deny the humour of the situation. 

 

“Sorry!” He called ahead, giving the cheekiest grin he could manage.  “Can I speak with someone about the accounts, please?”

 

“Lord Rickon, you have a steward to ask these sorts of things!” An older lady that sparked some half-forgotten memory swept forward looking worried.  “You’re a prince now, m’lord, really!  Are you shirking your duties again?”

 

“Not me,” Rickon informed her proudly.  “Arya put me in charge of this until she comes back.”

 

The older woman huffs, but gives him a fond look all the same.  “Well then, my prince, let’s go over everything together.  Through here, if it pleases you.”

 

They go upstairs and past the seamstresses into the office, where information is stored in locked drawers.  This is easier than the brothel had been because all the interesting sounds and smells are in specific spots, and they are all half-remembered and not as interesting for it.

 

As they are leaving though, they come across one of the girls giving Shaggy a good scratch behind the ears and under the chin, which is his Secret Scratching Spot.  Rickon is impressed that she is brave enough to come close to his partner, and impressed again that she would scratch such a large creature.

 

“Go left more,” Rickon advised, causing the girl to start.  She looks up at him with bright blue eyes set in a square-ish face, jagged black hair cut short and left free about her face to try and hide the terrible fresh burns on her left cheek.  “Don’t stop.  Shaggy was enjoying that.”

 

The girl curtsied hurriedly, stammering out apologies that Rickon waved off.  “Who are you?  You’re new, aren’t you?’

 

“Irene, if it please my lord.  I’m still new to the loomhouse, yes.”

 

“Where are you from?” Rickon asks.  She does not smell like the North, not really.  And she doesn’t smell the same as the seamstresses, even if she smells _of_ them.

 

“Here, now, my lord.  South of the Neck originally, though.” 

 

Rickon can practically hear her heartbeat and smell her fear himself.  “I’m not like Ramsay Bolton,” he tells her with a frown.  “I’m not going to hurt you.  Stop being so scared.”

 

“Don’t ask for miracles, little prince,” the Hound drawls behind him.  “Let the girl be.  We’re losing daylight.”

 

He’s right, unfortunately.  Rickon gives him a nod, before turning back to Irene.  “If you need anything, you send for me at the castle, alright?”

 

She ducks her eyes and nods, giving Shaggy a last scratch and Rickon a quick curtsy before disappearing back into the building.

 

Rickon looks at Osha first and then the Hound.  “You both picked up on that, didn’t you?”

 

Osha hums idly, eyes trained on the door and fingers dancing on the handle of her dagger.  The Hound has a perfectly blank face on when he says, _where to next, princling?_   They are all the answers Rickon needs.  He turns to Shaggy, slipping his skin briefly.  In Nymeria’s absence, Shaggy has taken up as alpha of the pack.  The pack are given Irene’s scent, and asked to set a watch to her. 

 

 _We’ll see what happens now_ , Shaggy thinks at him with a huff.  _She gave good scratches._  

 

* * *

 

 

Arya had thought it would take them another day or two to make the Twins, but she had been thinking in man-terms of horses and roads.  Nymeria had scolded her for forgetting, trying to share the wolf-knowledge with her, but it was too much too soon for Arya.  Instead they had slipped in to a comfortable, shared mind-space, Arya running her plans past Nymeria to see what the she-wolf thought.

 

Nymeria was not human.  She liked things simple, but she _also_ liked Arya’s revenge for their brothers.

 

When they reach the Twins, Arya has Nymeria order everyone to take a break.  They will sleep away the rest of the night and then the _show_ will begin.  Until then, Arya has some spying to do.

 

It takes nothing for her to slip in to the keep on their side of the Green Fork, Ghita’s face once again in place.  She regrets her choice quickly, however – there are not many pretty girls in the Twins, and Ghita was an Essosi beauty.  There are _hands_ and _touching_ and _offers_ , and Arya is hard pressed to get away without drawing attention to herself.

 

She wishes she had another face, but if she changed now it would be even more suspicious than a new face in the castle.  Continuity demands that she stick to it.  Vengeance demands that she start taking fingers.  Justice demands that she bide her time.  She needs to find Walder Frey, and get everything out of him – Robb’s crown, Uncle Edmure and his wife and babe, Robb’s bones, if it’s possible.

 

The old Lord of the Crossing is easy enough to find.  Heavy application of wine and flirting gets her the answers she wants, and a sleepy powder in his last cup gives her the space she needs to slip away. 

 

The crown is kept in old Walder’s bedroom, so she gets another maid to help her carry the Lord back to his chambers, goes back to the kitchens, and waits.  She scrubs dishes and listens, as Syrio and Jaqen both had taught her.  When all is dark she sneaks herself back upstairs, quiet as a shadow, and slips back into Walder’s room.  Step one, completed.  Next step – find Roslyn Frey and toddlering Robin Tully. 

 

She isn’t sure how to feel, that her uncle’s wife decided to name her son for the goodnephew she had allowed to be murdered under guest right.  The old Arya, No One and nothing, would have simply killed the woman with all the rest of her horrid family, and taken the babe with her to Riverrun.  She cannot be that person, so instead she decides to question Roslin for herself.

 

Despite the late hour, Roslin Frey is yet awake.  She calls a quavering _come in_ to Arya’s _my lady?_ , her chubby-cheeked son as red-headed and blue-eyed as Rickon had been at that age.  There is no doubt in Arya’s mind that this is her cousin.

 

“I don’t know you,” Roslin says, dragging her son behind her and up on to the bed, stepping in front of him.  “Who do you serve?  Why are you here?”

 

“Valar dohaeris.  I serve the North.”  Arya tells her plainly.  “Winter _is_ coming.”

 

Roslin’s breath is shaky.  “You can kill me for that farce of a wedding if you must, but don’t touch my son!  He had no part of it – _I_ knew nothing of it until that morning, I had been so, so happy until they told me what would happen!  If I could have done anything to stop them, I would have, but I couldn’t!”

 

“People will say anything, when they think that they’re about to die,” Arya says coldly, watching closely.

 

Roslin is blinking tears from her eyes, shaking but standing firm between Arya and her son.  “On my honour as a Frey, on my honour as a Tully!  I swear to you and all those my family have devastated; I didn’t want that!  I wanted to marry my husband, whomever my family thought best, and give him children and help him run his household, and maybe have a better marriage than my parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins!  I wanted my children to have a future, and live long and happy lives!  I swear it!”

 

The Faceless Men taught Arya how to read every single tell in a person.  Roslin Frey is telling her the truth.

 

“And if you could do those things?  Go to your husband, run Riverrun with him, give him more children?  Would you do it?”

 

“What would I have to do?”  _Good_ , Arya thought.  _She’s clever, at least, and cautious_.

 

“Would you trust a Stark?”

 

“If there is a Stark left, I would hear their words.”

 

Arya grins at her brightly, holds her fingers to her lips, and then removes Ghita’s face.  “My name is Arya Stark.  I’ve come to reclaim my brother’s crown, and both his titles.  Will you help me?”

 

Roslin is still shaking and still scared, but there is a light in her eyes that Arya approves of.  “Do you swear that you will allow no harm to come to Robin?”

 

“My cousin has the protection of House Stark and the great wolf pack, of this I swear.  I want you to know that I will be taking my brother’s crown and my country and House’s vengeance before I go to reinstate Uncle Edmure as the Lord of Riverrun.  I want you to tell me those who are innocent, and I want you to have everything you and Robin will need ready to go soon.  Will you do this for me?”

 

“You will spare the innocents?”

 

“Aye.  Who of them would you have me place in the Lord’s position once the guilty are gone?”

 

“Anyone?”

 

“Anyone.”

 

“Tyta.  They call her the Maid, even if she’s six-and-thirty, but she has a solid head on her shoulders, and she would be the next eldest of Father’s children to yet live when you finish.  She will do whatever she must to keep the others in order.”

 

Arya gives her that hungry wolf smile, bows, and says _be ready_.

 

“Your grace!”  Roslin calls just as Arya touches the doorhandle.  “If – when I have a daughter, my Queen, would it be alright, if, could I name her for your mother?”

 

Arya’s hands spasmed on the knob, and it took all her courage and all her training to keep her face blank.

 

“My title is King, Lady Tully.  And if my uncle is amenable to it, then I would be … honoured.”

 

She sneaks from the room and ghosts up to Lord Walder’s once again.  She will have her vengeance on the blight of a man.  She will avenge her family.  And in only a few years, if everything works out, there will be another Catelyn Tully in the world.  For now, Arya has to contend herself with that.

 

* * *

 

“Lord Walder.  Wake up, my lord.  Wake up!”

 

She has donned Ghita’s face once more, and gives the prettiest smile she can, copying the early memory she has of her sister in the presence of Joffrey and overlays the whores of Braavos atop it.

 

“Eh?  What do you want, girl?”

 

“You, my Lord.”

 

Rheumy eyes drag up and down Ghita’s figure.  “…You’re not one of mine, are you?  No, too pretty by half.  Eh, eh.  Well then, girl, come here.”

 

Keeping the pretty, vapid look upon her face, Arya settles herself on the edge of the bed.  _Closer_ , Walder urges, and _closer_ again until she is nearly in his lap.  She promises herself that she will have the longest, soapiest bath of her life when this is over.

 

“I want to tell you something, my lord,” She whispers, copying the sultry tones of the whores who had bought the oysters and clams and cockles from Cat of the Canals, back in Braavos.  She learns forward, and asks, “Will you hear it?”

 

“Eh, eh!  What is it, girl?”

 

“My name, my lord!”  She giggles, leaning close enough that she can smell his horrid breath, feel it puff across her face; she stays far enough away that he cannot easily kiss her.  “Will you hear it?”

 

“Well, get on with it, girl!”  He growls, eyes hungry on Ghita’s face and chest. 

 

She fingers the knife she tucked up one sleeve.  Her smile changes from love-struck to a hunger of her own, and she breathes, “My name is Arya Stark.  I want you to know that.”  She leans back, pulling Ghita’s face from her own.  “The last thing you’re ever going to see, is a Stark smiling down at you as you die.”

 

She wants to cut his throat, as Mother’s was.  She wants to stab him in the heart, like Robb, or in the belly a half-dozen times, as Robb’s mate had been.  She wants him to choke on his own blood, on poison, to drown in his tub, to strangle him with his own belt or chain of office.  She wants him to _suffer_ , gods be good, she wants to pay him back for everything that had happened at the Red Wedding and after, and she _can’t_.  A King ought to be just, even in vengeance.  So she plants her knees on his upper arms, places her own forearm against his throat and _pushes_.  And she makes him suffer.

 

“I’ll call them all back; all your blood who participated in the murder of my family.  I’m going to poison the wine and _kill them slow_ for what you did.  And I will make sure that they know it was a Stark who did it.  I’m going to give Riverrun back to my Uncle, I’m going to be King of Winter and King of the Trident, as Robb was.  And Walder of House Frey is going to vanish into the history books.”  The light is disappearing from his eyes when she spits, “Winter has come, _my lord_.”

 

* * *

 

It doesn’t take much to call all of the Freys together.  There are many who are participating in the siege of Riverrun, and the pack would deal with them in time.  In the morning Arya slips about in both old Walder’s face and Ghita’s, and even her own when she goes to Roslin for information on who to kill.  Roslin offers her tea and biscuits, and though her belly rumbles and her throat is _so_ dry, Arya declines.

 

“Your Grace, you must eat!” Roslin stammered, brown eyes worried.  “You are already so thin, so small!”

 

“And break guest rite, myself?” Arya snaps.  She doesn’t mean to be angry with this wisp of a woman; she is just so hungry.  “Tonight, and all shall be well.  Have you spoken to Tyta yet?”

 

“A-aye, my king.  She begs you spare the innocents, but elsewise accepts your terms.  House Frey will serve House Stark from now until the end of time, on pain of the extinction of our house.”

 

“And have you packed everything you and Robin will need for the journey?”

 

“Everything bar food is ready to go, your Grace.  I didn’t want to be too suspicious.”

 

Arya nods at the sense of it, and looks about the room.  “May I?” She asks, gesturing to Robin.

 

“If he’ll let you, my king.  He’s slippery as a river-polished, algae-covered rock.”

 

Arya smiled, and whispered, “Nay, sweet aunt.  He is as slippery as a Trout.  Robin, come here, please.”

 

The boy stumbles towards her, babbling something or another, and Arya scoops him up.  It both was and wasn’t all that long ago, that she did the same with Rickon, or the smallfolk of Winterfell.

 

“You will be lord of Riverrun, one day,” Arya whispers, tickling the little boy’s tummy and making him squeal with laughter.  “And you are going to remember your cousin Arya, and know for whom you were named, and how you were spared.  _Family, Duty,_ _Honour,_ Robin, remember that.”  Turning back to Roslin, she says, “Please make sure you have two sturdy horses ready to go.  One will take you and Robin, and the other is going to carry your supplies, alright?”

 

“Aye, your Grace.  When, ah, when will we leave?”

 

“On the morrow, I suppose, if not as soon as my business is concluded,” Arya hums.  “Long enough for me to install Tyta and make sure that her will is followed, and that _my_ will is followed, first and foremost.  We’ll be traveling with the pack, too, so make sure the mount you pick isn’t too high-strung.  I’ve already sent half of them on to Riverrun to harass the seigers there.”

 

“Yes, your Grace.”

 

She flits about for a few hours longer, even stopping in to speak with Tyta the Maid for a short time herself, hashing out exactly what she wants, and reminding the new Lady of the Twins just what was at stake if she did _not_ follow Arya’s rules.  There is an agreement to send the Northern bones back to their families, where possible, and a request to foster one of the babes.  And then finally, it is time. 

 

Wearing Walder’s face once more, she sits upon the dias and watches the gathered monsters just below her.  Catching the eyes of Roslin and Tyta, Arya inclines her head.  Both women stare back at her, sad and resolved in equal turns, and give nothing away when Arya thumps Walder’s goblet a few times to grab the men’s attention.  She gives them a pretty enough, realistic enough speech about the greatness of this House, makes a joke about Walder’s tight pockets, and then raises the goblet of poisoned wine.

 

“A toast!  Now this isn’t that Dornish horse piss; this is the finest arbour gold!  The finest wine, for proper heroes!  _Stand together._ ”  The men drink, and Arya stops the poor new wife, widow, of Walder Frey from partaking too.  “Maybe I’m not the most pleasant man, I’ll admit it, but I’m proud of you lot.  You’re my family, the men who helped me slaughter the Starks at the Red Wedding!  Yes, yes, _cheer_.  Brave men, all of you.  Butchered a woman pregnant with her babe.  Cut the throat, of a mother of five.  Slaughtered your guests, after inviting them into your home.”  Those who Tyta and Roslin had advised against drinking are looking about them in apprehension.  The men who drank are all starting to cough, and clear their throats, and Arya knows what is coming.  But, you didn’t slaughter every one of the Starks.  No no, that was your mistake.  You should have ripped them all out, root and stem.  Leave one wolf alive, and the sheep are never safe.”  She pulls off Walders face, and smiles down at the dying me.  She _is_ the last thing that they see.  And fear is all she can see in their eyes.  This went better than she thought it would.

 

Turning to Kitty Frey, she smiles again and says, “When people ask you what happened here, tell them the North remembers.  Tell them, _Winter came, for House Frey_.  Lady Tyta, I leave you in charge of this Castle.  From this day, until the end of your days, House Frey will serve House Stark, and all mine rules.  Roslin?  Fetch your boy.”

 

She calls upon her memories of her lady mother, and does her best to glide from the room.  (she is not a lady – it is less a glide and more of a shadow’s slide, an assassin’s prowl).   She will not clean up this mess.  She shall leave it to the Freys, to drive her point home.

 

She cannot stop at the kitchens, for she fears what the Old Gods might send her if she did.  So she goes to gather Robin and Roslin’s luggage, and has Roslin do it in her stead.  Outside of the castle, Arya chews on some of the sap and bark she had prepared back in the Barrowlands, and calls for the pack.  Nymeria and half of the hundreds of wolves who had come back south with her swarm in to the castle grounds, howling and baying a frightful song.  Arya asks for volunteers; those who agree will bare her words to all those who need to know – Northmen and Riverlords and all.

 

_The North Remembers.  Winter came to House Frey; Tyta Frey is new Lord of the Crossing, by my hand.  Valar Morghulis._

 

It is signed with a Direwolf in white-on-black wax, in what is to be her own personal sigil.  It is signed _Arya Stark, Daughter of Winterfell.  King of Winter and King of the Trident._

 

* * *

 

 

The little wolf-bitch had been gone for a week when a wolf appears with a missive tied to it’s neck with a strip of leather, and the lead for a pony held in it’s jaws.  There’s a little rat-faced girl seated in the saddle, looking at her surroundings miserably.

 

_Shaggydog,_

_Rat King given his due.  Twins handed to new mistress.  The girl Della I have taken on as a handmaiden.  She is deaf and one year younger than yourself, so be kind, and have her assist you however you best find her able._

_I’ve gone on to the River with our cousin, as you suggested.  Perhaps another week, dear brother, and then I shall come back to you.  Send missives to the holdfasts to conduct an inventory of their stores, and please return that horse.  The Moose should be close, don’t do anything stupid, lean on Hound for advice where necessary, look in to marriage with the female line.  Any word from Ghost or Lady?  There are rumours about what stirs beyond the Wall, talk to Osha.  Will we need to open lands up after all?_

_All my love, Nymeria_

 

“Another week?”  Sandor demands, having read over the little lord’s shoulder.  “What’s all this mean, anyway?”

 

Rickon gives him a biting smile, and instead says, “Let’s settle Lady Della in.  Would you see to her horse, Hound?”  The prince gives the lady a good attempt at a gallant bow, and offers his hand to help her down.  She squints back at him suspiciously, but more-or-less allows Rickon to help her dismount.  She doesn’t do or say anything when Rickon takes her bags and offer his arm, and she only looks a little panicked when Sandor takes her horse.

 

“Shaggy?” Rickon calls, and to the girl’s credit she doesn’t react when the massive Direwolf launches himself at Rickon, tongue lolling, and then proceeds to sniff and lick her all over.  Rickon smiles brilliantly, pats the little Lady’s hand, and starts to tug her towards the main keep.  “We’ll put Lady Della in Arya’s old room, please,” the boy calls to the stressed steward.  “Arya will be back soon, too, so please ready the Lord’s chambers for our King.”

 

Sandor thinks that when the boy forgets that he’s half-wolf and half-wildling, he does a spectacular impersonation of his lady sister and her courtesies. 

 

Rickon takes them to what had once been Eddard Stark’s solar, escorts Della to a chair and gives her a bow.  The wolf who had born the message had followed them cheerfully, stopping by the front door to piss and to nip at one of the larger dogs, and had taken up a guard post by the solar door.  The dog and one of the half-grown pups joined it; the princeling snorted at them, gave them all a scratch behind the ears, and then closed the door once Shaggydog had taken his place by the hearth with a huff. 

 

“So who’s this then?”  The wildling woman asks, leaning against the wall and watching the little lady with cold eyes.

 

“Della Frey,” Rickon says, rummaging through the desk draws.  “She’s gonna be Arya’s handmaiden, whatever that is.”

 

Sandor snorts.  “She’s supposed to help your sister look appropriate; do her hair, set out her clothes, run missives for her, make sure everyone knows that the King is coming.  Those sorts of things.”

 

“That’s stupid,” Rickon scowls at him, a goosefeather quill tucked behind one ear as he mixes up some ink.  “Arya’s grown, she can do all of that herself.”

 

“Kings and Queens and Lords and Ladies are supposed to be fancier than everyone else,” Sandor tells him, trying not to laugh.  “So they have people to do everything else for them.”

 

Rickon snaps out something in what is probably the First Tongue that makes Osha give a harsh cackle.  Sticking his tongue out in concentration, Rickon writes out a scratchy note for the lady – _do you reed?_

 

“Read has an ‘a’, not two ‘e’s,” Sandor offers whilst the Lady is looking over the boy’s terrible handwriting.  “Otherwise you’re talking about the plant.”

 

Rickon bites at him half-heartedly, and the little Lady looks up to give a nod.  Rickon grins at her, and pulls out a sheaf of papers and hands over the quill and inkwell.  She takes it, and sets up a growing list of questions.

 

As she writes, Rickon straightens out Arya’s note once again.

 

“Walder Frey is dead and replaced.  Arya’s gonna be longer since she’s taking Uncle Edmure’s wife and babe back to Riverrun.  She wants us to send out missives to all of the castles to see if we can last the Winter; if they cannot, Arya has plans for foreign trade.  I need to take Lord Manderly back his horse, so I’ll probably talk to him while I’m there about some of the plans she sketched out.  The Hornwood bastard should be arriving soon, so we need to get his mettle, and see if there are any daughters from the female Hornwood line that might accept marrying him to rebuild the House.  We should probably send another message to the Wall to see what is keeping Jon and Sansa; the pack who went to track them were confused and lost the scent at a river, but they’re still looking for us.  Osha, that thing that wasn’t Bruni, the reason you left the Real North – is there more of them?”

 

The woman has gone white.  “Aye, little lord.  There’s a whole army of the Others up Beyond the Wall.”

 

“Fire stops them?”

 

“It stopped Bruni.”

 

“Then we’ll write missives warning about the dead men who walk, and advise that all holdfasts, villages and hamlets keep a central fire burning.”

 

Della looks up at them then, tapping on the desktop to grab their attentions.  The letters were far neater than Rickon’s, but that wasn’t particularly hard to begin with.

 

_I am Della Frey.  I have been sent to act as a handmaiden to the King of Winter and the Trident, Arya Stark.  Who are you?  Why is the King not here?  Why is she not called Queen?  How long am I to act as handmaiden?  Am I supposed to marry in the North?  How did her grace become King?  Why are your letters so terrible?_

 

“We’ll be waiting too long if we let you answer all of that,” Sandor growls, dragging a new sheaf towards himself, and writing large enough for the other three to see.

 

**_Sandor Clegane; Prince Rickon Stark; Osha; Shaggydog._ **

**_Arya retaking Riverrun, should be back in a week._ **

**_King because she wanted to be, it’s_ King _in the North or_ King _of Winter, not_ Queen _.  Took the title for her people, for her home, for her ghosts._**

**_Don’t know anything about your future._ **

**_Rickon hasn’t had to know his letters in years and forgot._ **

 

There is a fine tremble in the little lady’s hands, but otherwise she is perfectly poised.  

 

“What army are you talking about?” Sandor growls at them, whilst they wait for Della to finish reading his replies.

 

“The dead are marching South,” Osha says simply.  “It’s the reason why so many Free Folk were tryin’t cross the Wall.  We want to live.”

 

“You expect me to believe that horsepiss?” He snaps back, hackles raised.  He nearly died for the Wolf-bitch in the War of Five Kings.  He does not wish to risk the same again in this war for the living, especially if _fire_ is the only thing that will beat them.

 

Della taps her forefinger to the desk twice, almost delicately.  It grabs their attention, and postpones the fight before it can truly begin.

 

_The Frey army has been trying to reclaim Riverrun for near two years.  How does her grace expect to reclaim it within a week?_

Sandor looks to Rickon, reading the question aloud for the little prince.

 

 ** _Wolves and poison_** , is apparently the answer.  Sandor wishes he could see _that_!

 

_Am I to be confined until the King returns?_

 

Rickon takes the quill back, and painstakingly scribes, _Do you ~~no~~ know how to run a household?_  At Della’s nod, he continues.  _Then you shall follow me and help me until she comes home._

 

* * *

 

They are nearly to Fairmarket when the scouts, or vanguard, or whatever other human words want to be applied to them, have found a cottage up ahead.  Nymeria sees it through the eyes of the scouts, and Arya sees it through Nymeria.  She knows it.  This is where Sally and her father had taken Arya and Sandor Clegane out of mercy; Sandor had robbed them so that he and Arya could live.

 

The scouts say that they yet live, if barely, so Arya begs them find father and daughter and bring them to her _alive_.  The scouts aren’t impressed, but comply all the same.

 

She and Roslin keep moving forward at a steady pace; Ayra explains the basics of what is happening to Roslin, before looking through the pack’s eyes. 

 

Sally and her father, understandably enough, aren’t impressed either when a handful of wolves let themselves in to the cottage, sit, and glare at them.  White _trouble-mischief-quick_ and brown _steady-*growl*-cranky_ don’t really know how to handle humans, so they try and treat the terrified people as wayward, slightly slow pups.  Whining, growling, gesturing their heads and even snapping, Trouble and Steady herded Sally and her father northwards and east in to the path of Arya and the rest of the pack.

 

It takes time on both accounts for them to finally meet in the middle.  Arya has her cowl bound to her head with a scarf, the former low on her forehead and the latter high on her nose so that only her eyes are easily visible.  Roslin and Robin are equally protected from the harsh almost-winter winds; the three of them must strike an impressive figure.

 

“Who are you?” The man demands.

 

“My name is Arya Stark, of Winterfell,” She says softly, tugging at her scarf and cowl.  “Once, some years ago, you harboured a giant man and a girl he called his daughter.  The man was named Sandor Clegane.  The girl was me.  We did you a disservice, and I’m sorry.  I should have tried harder to get your coin back to you, but we were starving too.” Arya looks to Trouble and Steady, through her eyes then Nymeria’s then her own again, and the two back away from the humans.  “You are suffering because of our actions.  Let me repay the debt I owe you.”

 

“Have you any more coin or food to your name than when last we met?” The father sneered.  Arya stares at him, so he spits, “Then we shall survive on our own.”

 

“You won’t.  You can’t.  Winter is coming, and you have nothing left to your names.  Let my wolves take you to Winterfell where you can find work and food and shelter.”  She dismounts from the second horse, and strips what she and the Tullys will need, and leaves enough for Sally and her father.  “Trouble and Steady will go with you and keep you safe, and guide you to Winterfell.  My brother Rickon will look after you until my return.”

 

“And where are you off to, that you will not escort us yourself?” 

 

“I have to return my aunt and cousin to Riverrun, and help my uncle and great-uncle take it back from the Lannisters.  It shouldn’t take too long.”  Arya rummages through her bag for paper and quill.  “I’ll send a message with you.”

 

“What would you have us do, m’lady?”  Little Sally asks, voice quieter than a sept-mouse.

 

“Your Grace,” Roslin corrects gently.  “Arya Stark is King of the Trident, and King of Winter, as her brother before her.”

 

“There is much farmland that needs tending, in the North,” Arya offers.  “Elsewise, there is plenty of positions to fill in Winterfell itself; in the kitchens, as a maid or manservant, the kennels, the stables.”

 

“You carry a sword?”  Sally whispered again, black eyes wide.

 

“I do.  I don’t have a squire, if you’d like to fill that position instead.”

 

“It isn’t a girl’s place to fight,” Her father spat.

 

“And yet, it’s something I happen to be very, very good at.  If you would like, I’m happy to teach you your letters, Sally, your numbers, the running of a holdfast – gods know I’ll need a hand keeping my brother in check, in the years to come.  But if you want it, I can teach you the sword, the staff, knifework, poisons and antidotes.  I can teach you how to be anyone.  But that is up to yourself.”

 

She turns to Roslin and says, “We may as well break here.  Let Robin stretch his legs, the wolves will mind him for us.”

 

“Are you sure, your grace?”  Roslin asks, worried for her son.

 

Arya ignores the doubt – her own mother had been worrying about such things right up until they left for Kings Landing, and her children had been six and ten and eleven and thirteen and seventeen, and well past the age of being worried over – and instead sets about setting up a simple camp, cookfire and blankets beside it.

 

“Your name?”  She asks the father.

 

“Lothor,” He growls out. 

 

“Lothor, Sally, would you like to come with me to Winterfell, then?”

 

Lothar grumbles and growls, far crankier than Arya remembers him being – hunger does that to a man, Arya’s found – but eventually, he acquiesces.  Arya offers Nymeria to take him back to pack up what he needs from the cottage (not that she imagines that there is much, but all the same), and says she will have food ready by the time he returns.  He is unwilling to leave his daughter behind with Arya, but Nymeria doesn’t really have the room for two.  He could take the horse, he argues, but Arya isn’t a hundred precent sure the beast would come back to her, elsewise.

 

The fire is built and a pot of tea is burning when he finally takes his leave.  As soon as Arya knows that he cannot hear her, she turns to Sally and gives her a smug smile. 

 

“Sword, staff or dagger, then?  It’s your choice.”

 

* * *

 

Larence Snow is the bastard of Hornwood.  His father died at the battle on the Green Fork, and his half-brother Daryn had died at the battle of the Whispering Wood.  The best he could have hoped for, whilst they lived, was to perhaps become Daryn’s Master of Arms, or Steward, or something similar.  Certainly, that was what was covered in his education at Deepwood Motte, where the Glover’s had kindly fostered him over the last six years.

 

But now his family is all gone, even Lady Donella, and he is the only Hornwood left.

 

(Father’s sister is Lady of Torrhen’s square, and Father’s aunt had been the wife of Arnolf Karstark – there are yet those with the Hornwood blood.  His is just the closest claim to the name, even if he is a Snow.)

 

The summons to Winterfell worry him.  He has been on the road all week, since the message first came, and the whole time he has been thinking of Lady Donella.  They had not been close, not by any stretch of the imagination, but to starve to death is not something he would ever wish on anyone.  Even if the summons had been signed with a Direwolf, the wax used had been black instead of white or grey, and neither Lord Glover nor the Maester had known what that meant.  Was it the Lady Sansa, who had been forced to wed the Bastard of Bolton?  Was it a _trick_?  Or perhaps it was something else entirely – could Jon Snow have left his position as Lord Commander to rescue his true-born sister?  That’s what little Lady Erena said, but she was not even eight yet, so what did she know.

 

But a summons from the Liege Lord was a summons from the Liege Lord, so here Larence was.  Lord Robett had wanted to accompany him, but just in case it was for the worse, Larence had begged to go alone.  There had been times when he had regretted it, when he was lonely or when there had been strange noises at night, or the sounds of large companies of men racing past, but now he was here.  Winterfell loomed above him, and Larence found himself shaking with his nerves.

 

What was to happen to him?  Was he to be flayed?  Fed to dogs?  Instated as Lord – hah!  Not likely, that last one!

 

“Staring at it won’t open the gates, y’know.”  Larence nearly fell off of his mount he jumped so, when a voice piped up from his elbow.  It was a boy, young and willowy, with copper curls and icy eyes.  “Who are you?  Why are you here?”

 

“L-Larence Snow!”  He squeaked back, before calling on what courage remained to him. _Righteous in Wrath_.  “Who are you, boy?”

 

The return smile was sharp, and far better suited the wolves that had risen up out of the snow than the boy they flanked.  He shifted so that his cloak revealed a leather-backed gorget with twin direwolves.  “I’m Rickon Stark, Prince in the North.  My sister has been expecting you.  Come – we have much to discuss.”

 

A massive black Direwolf rose from the clump of bushes beside Larence’s mount, but despite the horse being a spirited mare who was known to jump at _kittens_ , the beast held steady.  Prince Rickon’s eyes looked to roll in the back of his head for a moment, but were back to their icy blue-grey once again.  The boy swung himself atop the great Direwolf, and gave Larence such a cheeky smile that he felt a matching grin sneak across his own face.

 

“Shall we?”

 

Boy and wolf took off at a quick pace, and Larence tapped his heels to the horse’s withers and tried to catch up to them.  The regular wolves who had originally flanked the Prince split in to two factions – three followed the road with them to the castle, whilst the remaining four spun and started to run a perimeter. 

 

As they came upon the gate, Rickon called out to the guards, “Larence Snow, bastard of Hornwood!  Stand down!”

 

They cantered in to the courtyard, the young prince jumping from his wolf as the great black beast skidded to a stop.  There was a little girl waiting for him, arms folded like a perfect lady and dress finely cut in a dark blue, rat-like face serene.  Rickon bounded up to her, a massive grin on his face and fingers twitching about in slightly exaggerated descriptions.  A thumb was jerked back at Larence, and then a soft, almost wavy motion with both hands above the head, drifting down like snow.  The girl only raised her eyebrow haughtily, before turning away from Rickon to sketch Larence an elegant curtsy. 

 

“Larence Snow, this is Lady Della Frey.  Put your horse away over there, and Shaggy will bring you to us.”  The wolf panted happily at being addressed, giving a doggy grin.  Rickon turned back to face the young lady once again with a smile, only for her to lean forward slightly, raise both brows and shake both flat hands at shoulder height.  Rickon pointed again, hands flying up to demonstrate _something_ in the odd language of the pair.  Larence felt a moment of jealousy – what a great friendship the two must have, to have a secret language together.  What it must be like, to be a young trueborn noble and carefree.

 

The black Direwolf escorted Larence to the stables and back to where Rickon and Della continued to wave their hands at each other.  Before he could do more than draw his breath to announce himself to his lord, there was a most human growl behind his back.

 

 “There you are you little _shit_ ,” the man himself was _tall_ , tall as the Umbers, with North-dark hair and bright eyes and _terrible_ scarring across the right of his face.  He was dressed in the Northern style with three black dogs stitched at the collar of his jerkin.  “First I chase the Little Bird across the Red Keep, then I follow the Wolfbitch across half the Riverlands and back again, and now I have to deal with _you_?  It ain’t happening, boy, I do this only as a favour to the girls.  Stop leaving me to the _tender mercies_ of the wildling bitch of yours!”

 

Rickon gave a hard look to the tall man.  “Don’t call Osha names.  If you don’t want to bed her, just tell her so and she’ll leave you be.  What did you want?”

 

“The Wolfbitch sent another message whilst your lordship was hiding from his duties in the wild,” the man snarled sardonically, handing a small scroll to the prince.  “Also, the steward wants you.  Stop running off.  You – who are you?”

 

“Larence Snow, ser.”

 

“I’m not a ser, boy.  Come on then, let me test your mettle – you know how to swing a sword?”

 

“Yes!” 

 

“Good.  Brat, what does your sister say?”

 

“She’s taken a squire, she wants to know my opinion of the new lord, if I did the research she wanted me to and if I’m looking after Della properly.  If Jon and Sansa have contacted us, again.  If I’ve been practicing the staff moves she wanted me to, and whether or not I’ve shown them to Della.  If I’ve killed you yet, or you me.”

 

“She has such faith,” the burnt man growled.  “Write her back, then, and once you’ve finished you and the girl come back for another round at staves.  You, Snow – with me.”

 

* * *

 

Lothor doesn’t like Arya, and thinks her mad.  Sally idolises her, and thinks she’s amazing.  Little Robin loves her dearly, and Roslin thinks her too clever for her own good, and too brave by far.  Nymeria is amused by the new additions to their tiny pack, and most of the rest of the wolfpack is too busy harassing the Frey siege to really care.

 

What ought to have taken Arya and the wolves another day and a half, what would have taken her with Roslin and Robin nearly four, ends up taking close to a week.  It would have gone quicker if Lothor and Sally had just taken the second mount and headed for Winterfell on their own, as Arya had intended.  Instead the grouchy farmer had insisted on travelling with the girls and babe, as “protection”.  Arya had shown off some of her water dancing and House-trained staff techniques to persuade him of her capabilities, but all it had done was have him insist that she teach him and Sally both in the way of both instruments.  Arya was at her wits end with him, and held him responsible for the babe trying to take up the sword too.  All three girls were in agreeance that Lothor’s insistence on taking up arms was the reason they all had stick-bruised shins.

 

It was with great relief that they finally spotted the smoke of the camp fires of the Freys.  Arya and Sally had snuck to the top of the ridge to spy on the encampment, Sally’s sharp young eyes and Arya’s experience favouring them indeed.  It was clear that the Freys had no idea about how to lay a siege, and clearer still that the wolves had been successful.  Through Nymeria, Arya had warged the great pack to pick certain herbs and sneak them into the campfires for hallucinations, into the cook pots for the runs, and into the water barrels to slow and poison the general troops.  To see the results of everything brought a truly wicked smile to Arya’s face, and a savage pleasure to roost in her chest.

 

“How many do you count, squire?” She whispered.

 

“Shy of three hundred, my King.”  Sally answered promptly.  The girl was quiet, certainly, but that did not mean she was anything less than sharp.  “But a company approaches from further South.”

 

Surprised, Arya flicked her eyes where Sally pointed.  Calling to Nymeria, she sent the wolves out to terrify and harass, and bundled Sally back down towards their little group.

 

“Lothor, Sally, stay down and stay hidden,” Arya snapped.  “Roslin, mount up.  Our chance here is slim.”

 

Pulling a face from her pack, Arya drags herself up on to the spare horse, turning to Roslin and asking quickly, “Tell me of this brother of yours, Roslin, quick, all that you can!”

 

Roslin shrinks back at first, before spilling a thousand stories about a terrible brother who took great pleasure in being as horrible as possible and fucking anything that would stay still long enough.  Arya wishes she’d taken literally _any_ other face than Walder Rivers, but it’s too late for that now.  Between Roslin’s memories and the Faceless magic, Arya feels that she will be able to pull everything off.  Their combined Frey faces are enough to get them through the milling “warriors”, enough to get them to just behind Black Walder and Lame Luthor. 

 

“I slit your niece’s throat from ear to ear!”  Walder calls up to the battlements, to an elderly man with Mother’s nose and a fish centred on his armour.   “Where were you?  Running and hiding like a fucking coward!  Yield the castle, or I cut his throat!”

 

“Hail!”  Arya calls, dismounting and striding over to the two Freys and a battered Edmure Tully.  Roslin and Robyn she has remain astride, just in case.  “I bring word from the Twins!”

 

“Fuck off, Rivers, we’re busy,” snapped Luthor. 

 

“Lord Walder is dead,” Arya projects, so that all might hear.  She is not as good as Sansa, cannot make it seem as though her voice cuts across all distances clearly without any effort, but she does her most subtle best.  “As are most everyone who was involved with the Red Wedding.  Tyta’s been put in charge, by order of the King.”

 

“What the fuck?”  Gasps out Black Walder, grip on Edmure Tully going slack.  Arya moves closer.  “What King?”

 

“Arya Stark, daughter of Winterfell.  She poisoned everyone with the wine.”

 

Lame Luthor hobbles closer, rubbing at his jaws. “But you and Roslin –?”

 

“You need to return Roslin and Edmure to Riverrun, and hand the castle back to the Tullys.”  Arya says firmly.

 

“But how are you here?”  Black Walder demands.  “You’re as guilty as any of the rest!”

 

“I’m the messenger,” Arya says simply, trying for a touch of fear.  “The North remembers.  Winter came for House Frey, and unless we give the castle back to the Tullys, we’re all dead.”

 

“A girl calling herself King can fucking _try_!”  Luthor snarls, releasing Edmure to stalk towards Arya.  “We’ll turn the brat back and show her!  We stand together!”

 

“Well,” Arya sighed back to Roslin.  Her aunt took her cue well, turning Robin’s head to her chest to hide his eyes.  “You had your chance.  You,” she snaps at her uncle.  “On the horse.”

 

Needle practically jumps from its scabbard to her hand, flashing out to poke clean through both Walder and Luthor’s necks, and slice Edmure’s noose.  Grabbing her uncle and tearing Luthor’s face from her own, Arya swings them both up on to the spare horse and kicks them straight for Riverrun, even as the remaining members of the pack loose a death knell, tearing through the camp and attacking whomever they can, sowing discord in their wake.

 

The two horses are racing for the bridge, and the blasted thing is still raised.  “Lower the fucking bridge!”  She screams.  Nymeria is racing for them too, Lothor and Sally on her back with their staffs to hand, knocking heads of any who are fool enough to race towards the Direwolf.  “Your King commands it!”

 

Perhaps it is her Stark face.  Perhaps it is her title, or the bronze-and-iron crown she draws low on her brow in place of Walder Rivers’ face.  Perhaps it is simply Nymeria.  It doesn’t matter; what matters is that they lower the bridge with just enough time for both horses and Direwolf to jump to safety, galloping into the main courtyard and skidding to a stop.

 

Arya flings herself from the mount and stands proudly before the soldiers of Riverrun, one hand on Needle and the other holding her bag of tricks close and closed. Her great-uncle stands before her on the bottom step of the battlements, something like wonder on his tough old face.

 

“My name is Arya Stark, King of Winter and the Trident, if you’ll have me.  Please have baths drawn for Lord Edmure, Lady Roslin and little lord Robin.  If meals could be spared for myself and my staff, I would appreciate it.  If any ravens yet live, might I borrow them, great-uncle?”

 

“Heh.  For all you resemble your father, your grace, you open your mouth and all I hear is your mother.”  The Blackfish says fondly.  Whilst Arya is jerking back in surprise – she has never been compared to her mother before, _ever_ – her great uncle turns around and bellows, “You heard the King!  Hop to it, lads!”

 

He approaches her slowly, taking her in and taking her mettle both, and finally sinks to one knee five paces from her.  “Riverrun is yours, your Grace.  Our steel and counsels are yours to do with as you like.”

 

He thinks she is like Mother – _her_ – so Arya drags the memory of Catelyn Stark about her like a cloak.  “Thank you, Ser Brynden.  You have my word as King – Riverrun is once more under House Tully; arise.  Be prepared, though, for the Lannister army marches upon us with a force of eight thousand.  Lothor, would you attend to the horses?  Squire, with me.”

 

She never managed to master the proper Ladies Glide like either her mother or sister.  But she did master the assassin’s equivalent, slipping like a shadow those last five paces to the Blackfish, every movement deliberate and deadly.  She stares up at him, taking in what is familiar and what is different with Sally at one elbow and Nymeria at the other.  “I have an army stationed outside the walls, and already they move against the Lannisters.  I need a bow and a writing desk before anything else.”

 

Brynden inclines his head, and rumbles, “At once, your Grace.  We’ll station extra guards at the Southern wall.  The ravenry is this way, if it pleases you.”

 

Arya nods back at him, back straight.  “Valar morghulis.  Winter is Coming, and we have much to do.”

 

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gods, this chapter just did not want to be written! I tried to get this out before season 8 started, but clearly that didn’t happen. For those who are screaming over the injustice done to us by said season, worry not. This story started with the intention of being a season 7 what if/fix it. Large sections of s8 are about to become defunct. Any particular issues you have with either season, let me know so we can see what we can fix.


	3. 3 Quick as a Snake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parleley, parlelellyleloooo, par le nee, partner, par... snip, parsley... Parlay!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so so much for the amazing response to last chapter! For all those asking: Gendrya LIKELY, Jonerys NO, Jonsa NO. Everything else is still fairly up in the air, though I have Plans ( TM ). Shout out to young Miss Molly for beta-ing most of this and soundboarding, and to EpicReader for all of your help! 
> 
> ps PLEASE STOP ASKING ME IF I HAVE ABANDONED MY STORIES. I HAVE NOT, I’M JUST SLOW. THANK YOU.

Trying to beat Maester Theomore to the ravens was a battle of persistence, patience and caution.  It was a battle fought on a knife’s edge, forever careful not to tip the balance and give themselves away.

 

In other words, Wylla had to play distraction so that Wynafryd could get there first.

 

It’s not that she minded – Wylla was best suited for the back-alley streets of White Harbour, and Wynny the castle life, and both sisters knew it and played the stakes in their respective favours.  However, it meant that Wylla had to keep coming up with different ideas for distraction that were not _obviously_ a distraction.  On top of that, she also had to organise the underworld of White Harbour and the North, which meant she was getting by on _maybe_ three hours of sleep a night.  She was going to slip one day soon, and whilst they had contingencies drawn up for those eventualities, and a half-dozen plans to remove Theomore whilst they were at it, Wylla was proud enough to not _want_ to need to use them.

 

Today’s distraction was that Wylla had made sure that Theomore had caught her and a “scullery maid” kissing most fiercely in a corridor.  The maid (one of the sailors, in actuality, but one who was willing to help just this once) had fled in “tears” once Theomore had threatened to evict her from the castle, leaving Wylla behind for a thorough scolding.  The burgeoning actress had slipped into the kitchens, played out her part in front of those who were foolish enough to report to Theomore over Lord Wyman, and then had returned to the docks to mend her nets for the morrow.  Wylla did her best to look resentful, embarrassed and dour throughout Theomore’s rant on her fast-approaching marriage to Little Walder Frey, and her now “tarnished” reputation.

 

Finally, after Theomore’s shouting has dropped back to a puffed-up rebuke, Wylla is frog-marched back to her chambers, and she is left alone with a guard at the door and instructions not to leave the room until she is summoned.  She hopes that the near-hour distraction was enough for Wynny to get what she had needed, and is glad to find her sister skulking inside of her cupboard once the Maester has locked her in her rooms.

 

“Well?”  Wylla demands, removing layers of Southern snobbery for her shift, getting ready for a long-overdue nap.

 

“Sansa Stark and Jon Snow are marching to retake Winterfell from the traitorous Boltons,” Wynafryd whispers.  Wylla catches herself with one of the necklaces she is removing and chokes.

 

“ _What?!_ ”

 

“Here,” her older sister says, handing over the raven scroll.  There is a sad-sounding caw from the cupboard.

 

“ _Why is there a raven in there?!_ ” 

 

“Don’t shriek Wylla, your voice is already high-pitched enough.”  Wynafryd scolded gently.  “I couldn’t think of anywhere else to put the poor thing where Theomore wouldn’t find it.  Go on, read the letter.  Either Lady Arya was unsuccessful, or else Lady Sansa and the Lord Commander have missed their sister.”

 

Wylla gathers up all of the unnecessary emotions and shoves them to the side, focussing on the letter (stamped with a Direwolf on grey wax) and what repercussions this spelt out for Houses Manderly and Stark.

 

“Lady Arya wrote to us when she took back Winterfell,” Wylla states.  She does not need to remind Wynafryd of this.  They had shared the letter between themselves and a bottle and laughed for joy.  It had said only _Valar Dohaeris, Winter has Come_ and been stamped with black-on-white wax.  “They have missed each other.”

 

“Or else something has gone wrong.”

 

“If Ramsay had Arya Stark, surely he would have announced it to all the high heavens.”

 

“He’s smart – only your network could confirm the rumours of Lady Sansa’s tortures.  D’you really think he would brag about killing the missing princess?  No, better to kill her and let her disappear into history as lost during the War of Five Kings.”

 

“So we need proof, before anything else,” Wylla said, combing her hair back with a sigh.

 

“I want you to go to Winterfell.”  Wynafryd says firmly in her best Lady-of-the-castle voice.  “House Manderly swore oaths to the Starks once, and you and I renewed them only weeks ago.  Take whomever of your network you think will best support you, wear whatever disguise you deem safest, and head inland.  I will tell Theomore that you are sulking and refuse the eat in rebellion for earlier, and will tell Mother and Grandfather what is happening in the Hour of the Wolf.  I’ve packed a satchel for you already, but check it and see if there is anything else you will need.”

 

Wylla draws in another deep breath, nods, and immediately upends the bag her sister hands her.  There is enough food, water and wine to last one person a week, or two people three days without any extra additions.  Longer, of course, if the food was eaten sparingly, or added to.  There are spare socks and gloves, a paring knife and carving knife, a lantern with steel and flint both, bandages and herbs, paper and ink.  Yes, for a race for Winterfell, this will do perfectly.

 

Shoving it all back in again, Wylla immediately begins to dress herself for the job ahead, pulling on stockings that go all the way to her hips.  She slips her shift for a moment so that she can bind her bosom, slipping her lockpicks and a small shank between her breasts, and tugging the shift back up again.  She straps daggers to each ankle, the small of her back and each wrist.  The jerkin she pulls over top of her shift is designed especially for her, gives her a masculine outline and hides another small knife at the nape of the neck.  She tugs on another set of men’s pants, a padded vest, boots that go half-way up her calf, and she slips a dirk into one in an attempt to draw attention away from the smaller daggers at her ankles.  Gloves and leather vambraces, a cloak, and she is almost done.  Carefully she braids back her hair, twisting it up and around her skull with pearl pins stuck through for emergency bribes.  She pulls on a wig of short brunet hair that she had paid a performer quite handsomely for, and presents herself to her sister with a wry twist to her mouth.

 

“Passable?”

 

Wyn scuffs some ash from the fire into the clothes, instructs her to find some more grime along the way, and then drags her into a hug.  Wynafryd is _not_ a hugging person, but Wylla is, and she knows that this is the closest her big sister will get to showing fear for her.

 

“Be safe, Wylla.  Don’t be caught, find out what has happened to our liege, and come home when you can.  _Please_.”

 

Wynnie doesn’t say _please_ sincerely much, either. 

 

“By the old gods and the new, I swear it.  Don’t be caught yourself, sweet sister.  Give Theomore hell where you can, and I’ll organise for Netta and Scales to keep you up-to-date on the seafront and the underworld.”

 

Wynny’s smile is a small thing, but genuine.  “I love you, Wylla.  Remember our teachings.”

 

“Might of the River,” She whispers their words of old, known only to the immediate family, closely guarded.  Says their new words, their Stark-men words.  “Strength of the Sea.”

 

* * *

 

 

Arya has drawn up three scrolls, reading each aloud to Sally in an attempt to teach the girl her letters.  One is for the Wall, asking for the whereabouts of her brother and sister.  One is for Rickon, letting him know what has happened and to see what is taking his reply so long.  The last is for Jaime Lannister, offering a parlay.  Once night has fallen, she shall give the notes for Rickon and the Wall to ravens who will drop down to the pack to be taken a safe enough distance away that they will not risk being shot down.  Until then though, she bids a raven to flit down to the encampment, herself and Sally watching for archers, just in case.

 

One archer thinks it best to aim for the bird.  Arya shoots him before he is even at half-draw.

 

Once the bird has disappeared into the mess of tents that are now popping up, Arya sets Sally to watch carefully, and beckons Nymeria over.  She and the wolf join as one, and they send their awareness out into the pack.  Many are only now running from the remains of the Frey camp, mouths bloody and stomachs full.

 

_Take the caravan_ , they tell the pack.  Arya provides the images, gives the instructions on which parts of the train to attack, the hows and whens of the whole scenario.  Shows them again the herbs that she wants snuck into the evening meals, begs them watch for the men who think to duck off and make water in the woods.

 

Nymeria tugs at Arya’s mind, twisting them sideways to slip into the awareness of the pack they left in the North, and into Shaggy too.

 

_Wild Sister!_   Shaggy called them cheerfully, even as the pack howled their greetings to their alphas.  A series of images flashed through Arya and Nymeria’s minds, all of the mischief the pack had been up to, and all of the new/old things that Shaggy and Rickon had been able to see and smell and taste.

 

_You_ have _been busy, Black Brother!_   Nymeria gave a wolfish laugh, and the sensation of a fond headbutt passed from one Direwolf to the other.  _The White Brother?  Little Sister’s girl?_

 

_No sign-sight-sound of them.  My boy has sent many man-signs by bird, and still nothing has come.  The Moose boy has appeared, though, and my boy has been in talks with him all day.  He is there now, else I would bring him in too._

_Any word from the other Lords?_   Arya asked.

 

_Little-Alphas?  No, and it worries the old one you sent for my wounds.  My boy is starting to worry too.  When will you return?_

 

_As soon as this business is done – not long.  Mayhaps a fortnight?_   Fortnight is not a word that wolves understand, so at their confusion Arya sends the impression of the moon changing, offering what she thinks the cycle will be when she returns.

 

_I shall let my boy know.  Be safe, sisters.  Any orders?_

_As you were, Black Brother.  Let my girl know if the other two sing back._

 

Arya slips back into her own body and rises swiftly, peeping over the parapet.  “Well, squire?”

 

“The Lannister reinforcements have arrived, your grace,” Sally says promptly.  “Between five and ten thousand men.  The last of the wolves have slipped away, but there aren’t very many Frey men left, if any.  The raven left the camp and landed on the horse of a man in golden armour.  Father has taken care of the horses, and Lord Brynden sent him to eat something and check in on Lord and Lady Tully.”

 

“And you?  Have you been fed?” 

 

“I will eat with your grace,” the little girl says firmly.  Arya smiles and ruffles her hair.

 

“Then let us go find a meal.  You, what’s your name?”

 

The guard she had indicated started, swallowed, and stuttered, “T-Thom, m’lady – Your grace!”

 

“Thom, how long is your shift atop the wall for?”

 

“Four hours, your grace; I’ve just started.”

 

Arya nods, takes his arm and drags him to a spot between crenulations.  “Here.  I want you to look at everything.  At the end of your shift, I want you to be able to tell me exactly what has happened, and where everything is.  Do you understand?”

 

“B-but, your grace, from this distance –!”

 

“Watch.  Observe.  I’ll be back in a bit, and we’ll see what you have seen, and then I can give you a better idea of what to look for.  Understand?”

 

“Yes, your grace!”

 

“Thank you.  Sally, let’s go.”   Arya leads them back down the steps, eyes sweeping the courtyard and looking for the most likely entry to the kitchens.  A page is waiting for them at the bottom of the steps however, and shakenly offers to lead them wherever they need to go.  The cooks try to make a feast, but Arya knows that their supplies are limited, and instead asks for a hunk of bread and some cheese each.  Sally is young, still growing and constantly hungry, so Arya also slips her one of the sap-and-bark balls that she had made back in the Barrowlands, and explains where it came from and how to recognise the tree.  They eat as they walk about the castle, taking in everything that they can.

 

“Your grace,” a maid exclaims, finally catching up to them when they are examining a tapestry upon one of the hall walls.  “Ser Brynden and Lord Edmure wish to speak with you, if it pleases your grace!”

 

Arya nods, and has the maid lead them to the two Tullys.  The maid and page both station themselves outside the room awaiting further directions.  “My lords, has something changed in the Lannister camp?”

 

“Niece,” Edmure begins, only for Ser Brynden to snap overtop of Sally’s high-pitched squeak. 

 

“She is your _king,_ and you shall address her as _your grace_!”

 

It is only thanks to her Braavosi training that she keeps her face blank at all.  She wishes things had been different.  She wishes that she could have met this great-uncle under better circumstances and at an earlier age. 

 

Once she would have insisted that they not stand on formality – but that was before she trained in the Art of Faces.  A King’s Face could not be anything but formal, and she could not afford her usual disregard of the rules.

 

“Lord Edmure,” She says in her clearest voice.  “I trust you have spoken with your wife and son?”

 

Edmure Tully had no chance at winning the Game of Faces.

 

“I see.  My Lord, Roslin had no part in that farce of a wedding.  She has forsaken those of her blood who killed and defiled those of _our_ blood.  Her son she named for my brother, the last King in the North.  It is thanks to her support that my justice was as swiftly served as it was.  When we are finished here, you _will_ go and speak with her, and shall share with her your council and listen in turn when she shares hers with you – actually, no.”  She stuck her head back out the door, and (asked firmly? ordered nicely?) _Kingly decreed_ that the page fetch Roslin, Robin, and Lothor.

 

Edmure’s face does something complicated with a range of emotions, but Arya ignores that in favour of the knight to his left.

 

“Ser Brynden.  What ailments would you bring to my attention?”

 

“The men are concerned about the Lannister army, your grace.  They want to know what your orders are.”

 

“Wait.  My pack has routed the Frey that survived and as we speak, they move against the Lannister reinforcements.  I’ve already sent out a raven to the Kingslayer to see if he won’t parlay with me, and finish this without any further bloodshed.”

 

“After all the Lannisters have done to your family, our family?!” Edmure demands, having found his voice. 

 

“I will have my vengeance against the Lannisters,” Arya corrects him in a voice like ice.  “But I supped on blood and misery enough at Harrenhal and the Twins; I have no need for thousands of souls to weigh me down.  These soldiers aren’t the ones who killed my family, so I have no need to offer their names to the Many Faced God.”

 

“And the Kingslayer?” Edmure demanded.  “He’s the one who crippled your brother!”

 

Everything sort of … stops.  Nymeria starts up a soft growl, and Arya puts an absent-minded hand to her ruff.

 

“I hadn’t known that.  Thank you, Uncle.”  She will think back over this; she needs to think in the now.

 

“Squire, go to your father.  Tell him that we will be atop the wall should he need us, but otherwise I request he stay at Roslin and Robin’s side as guard.  When you return, make sure that it is with another inkwell and more paper, please.  Have the maid outside direct you.”

 

“Yes, your grace!”  Sally is off and scampering away like some human-shaped rabbit, and Arya allows herself a second of fondness for the quiet girl.

 

“Quickly, now.”  Arya tells the men firmly.  “What has happened in Westeros over the last two years?  Everything that you can remember big or small, I wish to hear it.  And once we have caught up on the state of affairs, please – tell me of the holdfasts in the Riverlands.  How likely are they to last the Winter?”

 

* * *

 

 

“Thom, what do you have to report?”

 

“Your grace!” The guard jumps half his own height, Arya has spooked him so.  She kind of likes it.  Sally, hiding a giggle behind one tiny fist, is also impressed.  “I, um, they are setting up camp?”

 

“So I see.  But what, specifically, are they doing with this camp?  Have they altered the terrain?  Have they done anything about the bodies my pack have left behind?  Are they moving faster or slower than one might expect of a sieging army?”

 

“Uh –?”

 

“Have they shifted the layout of the camp? Are there set sections for different groups – and if so, what sort of groups have been placed where?”

 

“They’ve started digging trenches five hundred yards from the camp perimeter, your grace, and set picket lines every hundred” Sally pipes.  “There are cooksites per every hundred tents.  Common pike men, knights, and archers make up three sections of the camp, with blacksmiths scattered for every thousand tents.  They haven’t done anything to the bodies that I could see, but they are keeping a wide berth.”

 

Arya gives her the proud smile Syrio had once used to reward correct form.  “Well done, Sally.  Thom, turn back around.  Can you see what my squire sees?”

 

Quiet, a rough cough, before, “Aye, your grace.  How, uh, how did you see all that from up here?”

 

“Let your eyes fade out a bit every once in a while,” Sally told him, solemn.  “Your grace, the items you wanted.  What shall I do with them?”

 

“Keep them close – we might need to write down notes or send another letter yet.”

 

“Your grace, there’s a raven from the camp!”  Thom exclaims, leaning back from the wall. 

 

Sally watches it intently, but Arya does not look at the bird itself, not for long.  She is trying to spot whoever sent it, looking for ridiculous golden armour, gold hair.

 

There he is.  Front of the campsite, open and exposed and ready to offer his name to the Many Faced God for his crimes.

 

She holds her arm out and ready for the raven, staring at the Kingslayer until the bird has made itself comfortable.  She takes the scroll from its leg, opens and reads aloud to her squire and the guard.

 

_Let us parlay, Daughter of Winterfell.  Just you and I atop that solid drawbridge your family has raised against all the world.  In one hour._

 

“Sally, you will watch from the battlements.  You will not be seen, and you shall listen and tell me everything that you hear and what you think it all means.  Understand?”

 

“Yes, your grace!”

 

“Thom, protect my squire.  Nymeria, to me.”  With that she stalks from the battlements, lets Nymeria lead the way to Brynden and Edmure, who are still in the solar where she had left them only minutes before.  They have been joined by Roslin, a sleeping Robin, and Lothor, and that page is once again awaiting further instruction outside.

 

“My lords, my lady,” Arya snaps out, voice as ice.  “The Kingslayer requests a parlay.  Let me hear your council.”

 

“Did he send a note, your grace?”  Brynden asks, face folding into a heavy scowl.  She hands it to him, and turns to Edmure and Roslin.

 

Both are pale, and Roslin has a cant to her eyes that makes Arya suspect they had been arguing prior to her arrival.

 

“He wishes to intimidate you, n – your grace.”

 

Arya allows her lips to quirk up in a sharp smirk.  “He shall find me somewhat unintimidated, then.  Roslin?”

 

“He doesn’t have to offer it, my king.  He believes himself to hold the upper hand, this is a show of good faith.”

 

“Or a trap,” Lothor grumbles.  “Your grace, my daughter?”

 

“Sally is atop the battlements taking notes for me.  I assigned a guard to her for the interim, too.  Great-uncle?”

 

“Solid points all around, your grace.  I’d do it, to gain his measure if nothing else.”

 

Arya nods back to him.  “That was to my thinking, as well.  Can you present yourself to the battlements in another half-hour then?  I would appreciate your interpretation afterwards.”

 

Uproar.

 

“Your grace, you can’t!”  Edmure exclaimed.

 

“You mustn’t!” cried Roslin.

 

“Send another, your grace, allow me,” Brynden growled.  “You should not risk yourself so!”

 

Arya bares her teeth at them all, and snaps back, as close to Arya Underfoot as she has been in years, “A man with one hand does not frighten me, and cannot best me at arms, I assure you.  I am _going_ to this parlay, and you shall either present yourselves atop the wall and offer me your council, or you may stay here and dither, it is all the same to me.”

 

With that she stalks back out of the room with Nymeria at her heels and anger singing in her bones.  It is always close to the surface, this wolfsblood that had led to her Uncle’s death in Kings Landing, had led her to offer up names to the Many Faced God one by one.

 

It is unwise to go into peace talks with such wrath so close to hand.  Nymeria she sends to the battlements to mind Sally and Thom.  Herself she takes into the dungeons and across the lower halls of Riverrun.

 

A half-hour is enough time for her to chase cats and let off some of her rage.

 

* * *

 

 

It is only Arya and Nymeria that greet the Kingslayer, despite Brynden and Edmure’s follow-up protests.  He rides to them atop a white horse with a banner bearer at his side on a darker mount.  Arya raises her brow at the show, and looks up at Nymeria.  The massive direwolf is better than any flag, and the crown atop Arya’s head catches enough of the light that she feels it makes her point for her, too. 

 

His armour is red with gold highlights, rather than all gold as she had initially thought.  It is dulled from travel dust, and he stops just in front of where the drawbridge will go, and watches it passively as the bridge is lowered. 

 

_Ready, my girl?_

 

Arya swings herself atop the alpha, pulls up the face of Northern diplomacy, and together they drop from the battlements to the bridge.  To his credit, the Kingslayer doesn’t curse at the great crash brought about by Nymeria’s weight hitting the hardwood from such a height, though he does stumble back with wide eyes and a particular pallor to his cheeks.  Arya appreciates it.

 

“Kingslayer,” She greets him, slipping from Nymeria’s back and making a show of looking him up and down.  “I accept your surrender.”

 

Straightening, Ser Jaime returns, “The She-Wolf from the seventh hell, they’re calling you.  I think you might be mistaken – I have come to accept _your_ surrender.”

 

Arya gives him a pleasant smile.  “Now why would I do that?  You have no support, you are surrounded, you have no prisoner of worth.  No One is the only one who could take this castle from me, and even you cannot afford them.”

 

Lannister barks a laugh at that.  “For all you look like poor old dead Ned, you open your mouth and the Lady Catelyn just pops right out.”  This is only the second time she has been compared to her mother.  She does not appreciate that it is one of her enemies who is doing so.  “Lady Arya –”

 

“Do I look like a Lady?” Arya scoffs at him.

 

“You are outnumbered,” he steamrolls on.  “You are surrounded by eight thousand Lannister troops, and I have your Uncle Edmure and his wife and babe in my custody.”

 

Arya snorts at him.  “Do you?  And do you have much in the way of food and provisions?”

 

“We have more than you do, She-Wolf.”

 

“There are enough provisions here to last two years.  Somehow, I cannot see you lasting that long,” A cat had led her a merry dance through the larders, and she had once been taught to gauge such things by Septa Mordane.  But now she calls upon the Waif and Lady Crane – cocks her head to the side with a curious, knowing smirk in place.  The smirk does its purpose, making the Kingslayer step back again unconsciously and discomforted.  “They say that you are the reason my brother Bran was crippled.  Is that true?”

 

He looked pained.  “I – I was.”

 

“He had discovered you and your sister, hadn’t he?”

 

“He had.”

 

“The fall was supposed to kill him.  And when that failed, you sent an assassin after him.”

 

“That was Cersei.”

 

Her face doesn’t change; she does not let it.  What she does do is send a tendril of thought to Nymeria, which makes her wolf give a huffing laugh.  Nymeria stands and shakes herself all over, gives the Kingslayer a wolfish smile, and slowly swaggers back inside of Riverrun.  Arya steps forward, grabbing his attention when she sways enough to show that Needle is still at her hip beneath the cloak she wears.

 

“When Winter comes, you’ll hear no lions roar.  No stags will graze in the fields.  No roses will grow in the meadows.  No snakes will be in the sands, and the krakens will freeze where they swim.    Not even the dragon’s breath will warm you in your halls.  You shall hear only the wolves howl, and then you will know that winter has come.”  She gives her own approximation of Nymeria’s smile, and says, “Now is your only chance to surrender.  Spare the lives of your men, Jaime Lannister.  You won’t like what will happen if you do not.”

 

“I understand that your education is lacking, Lady Arya, but this isn’t exactly how one conducts a parlay,” Jaime scoffs.

 

The Waif had held a knife and looked at Arya with a feral hunger, once.  Arya pulls that bloodthirsty baring of teeth over her own face now, sends a thread of herself to Nymeria.

 

Nymeria howls, and is answered on all sides by her pack.  There is a cacophony of sound from the Lannister camp, man and wolf alike, and then the pack are streaming back towards the bridge with their bounty; some of the younger wolves held only ham hocks in their mouths, but many had teamed up to carry or drag bags of grain or flour, whole chickens or share a carcass of lamb or calf between two or three bodies.  _trouble-mischief-quick_ had convinced a few others to help him muster a handful of cattle and one fat pig towards the drawbridge, the rest having been freed and scattered over the course of the parlay per Arya’s instructions.

 

Arya continues to smile at the Kingslayer, and watches as horror and understanding bloom across his face.  The pig nearly knocks him into the moat as it charges past.  One of the steers flicks him with its tail hard enough that the rough hairs cut the skin of his cheek.

 

Arya walks up to him, steps steady and silent.  “My name is Arya Stark.  I am King of Winter and King of the Trident.  The North remembers, Jaime Lannister.  You have until sundown to surrender.  Otherwise your lives are all moot.  I will not make this offer again.”

 

With that she turns sharply on her heel and slinks back towards the castle.  Her ears are trained for any sound of movement behind her.  If Ser Jaime had been willing enough to push Bran – sweet, loveable and all of ten years old – out of a tower window and to his death, she did not want to risk being run through the back by his sword.

 

“King Arya!”  She pauses.  “The Lady Knight, Brienne of Tarth.  Did she find you?  Did she fulfill her oath to your mother?”

 

“Big woman, broken nose, scar on her upper lip, high-quality armour and a Valyrian sword with a lionhead pommel?”

 

“Honour a mile wide and almost as stubborn as your great-uncle,” There is a fond smile in Lannister’s voice as he makes his claims.

 

“I last saw her fighting the Hound atop a cliff in the Vale, two years ago.”

 

“And how did that fight end?”

 

“Sandor Clegane is now the Master at Arms in Winterfell.”

 

Was that ambiguous enough?  Would that cut at his psyche?  She fucking hoped so.  Ambiguity was a tactic the Waif had enjoyed, and Arya does not feel even a little bit sorry to utilize that here and now.

 

* * *

 

 

After Bear Island, the closest and largest holdfast was Deepwood Motte, Seat of House Glover.  Sansa had run up and down the family’s history and ties to House Stark with Jon to make sure he knew what angles they might come at them from, and both siblings had spent the whole trip rehearsing how they would best introduce themselves and act around the Lord.  They were _not_ going to have a repeat of Lady Lyanna, if Sansa had anything to do about it!

 

And yet their arrival at the Motte had been fraught with tension from the beginning.  Guards and servants alike had watched them, wary, had let their eyes drop more than anything, racing to comply with any comments or suggestions Jon or, in particular, Sansa put forward.  It was almost like being back at Winterfell, under the Boltons – but Sansa felt that this wasn’t the normal state of the Motte.  She felt like they were afraid of _her_.

 

When Lord Robett finally meets them (in the _courtyard_ rather than a solar or hall, as courtesy dictated), he is grimfaced and stern, moreso than either had expected.  His first words to them are neither greeting nor slur to Sansa’s character or honour, as they had feared.  It was a question that threw both Starks.

 

“What did you want the boy at Winterfell for, if you were coming here yourself, Lady Bolton?”

 

“I beg your pardon, Lord Glover – which boy?”  Sansa’s heart was twisting itself up in knots upon knots, thinking that this had been Rickon’s hiding place, that Ramsey had found out somehow and used her seal to trick the Lord –

 

“Larence Snow, my lady.  The note came by wolf nearly three weeks ago, with a Direwolf stamped on black wax.”

 

Sansa shakes her head and bites her lip.  “My seal is a Direwolf on grey, my lord, not black.  I escaped Ramsey’s tortures just _over_ three weeks ago.”

 

A look of pain flashes across Lord Robett’s face.  Eyes closed, he draws in a deep breath before asking, “Escaped?”

 

“The things that Ramsey Bolton did to me are not those that a Lady is supposed to know about, let along say aloud.  The things he did to me – well, I imagine that they would be acceptable ways to get information out of prisoners, certainly.”

 

“Why are you here, Lady Bolton?”

 

“I am Sansa Stark, my lord.  And we ride to take my home and little brother back from a monster.  Roose Bolton killed our brother and King, Robb Stark.  Ramsey killed him, and his Frey wife and son.  My brother Jon and I are looking for loyal houses to help us.”

 

“We’ve only just taken this castle back from the Ironborn, and it was the Boltons who helped us do it.  Now you want me to fight against them?  I could be skinned for even talking to you, that boy could be skinned, for all I know!”

 

“The Boltons are _traitors_ ,” Jon snapped.  “Roose Bolton –!”

 

“What other Northern Houses have pledged to fight for you?”

 

“House Mormont,” Jon admitted.

 

“And?”

 

“We’ve sent ravens to houses Manderly – ”

 

“I don’t care about ravens.  You’re asking me to join your army.  _Who is fighting in this army_?”

 

“… The bulk of the force is made up of Wildlings.”

 

A dark chuckle.  “Then the rumours are true.  I didn’t dare believe them.  I received you out of respect for your father, and now I would like you to leave.  House Glover will not abandon its ancestral home to fight alongside _Wildlings!_

 

“Lord Glover!” Jon tried again.

 

“I have nothing else to say,” The lord snapped, stalking back into his keep.

 

“I would _remind you_ that House Glover is _pledged_ to House Stark, _sworn_ to answer when called upon.” Sansa snapped.  That got the grumpy lord to stop, at least, got him to turn around and walk back to face her squarely.  Sansa raises herself higher, looks him in the face with her old court mask pulled down tight.

 

“Yes,” He breathes at her, rage simmering behind those dark old eyes.  “My family served House Stark for centuries.  We _wept_ , when we heard of your father’s death.  When my brother was lord of this castle, he answered Robb’s call, and hailed him _King in the North!_ ”

 

Robett Glover moves closer to her still, pain plain on his worn face, and Sansa can tell that she will not like what next comes out of his mouth.  Jon hovers on the side, face pinched with worry, but unsure and unwilling to intervene.  He may have been the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch – but he is not a Black Brother any more.  He is only Jon Snow, in the eyes of the Glover men, and he cannot help her here.

 

There is a whine behind them that disrupts the growing tensions, revealing a scruffy brown wolf with a note tied about its throat.  It gives them a doggy grin, shakes itself all over, plants itself in front of Lord Glover and presents its note.  When nobody moves to take the parchment, the wolf gives a huff, and shuffles so that it is facing Sansa instead.

 

Cautiously she moves to take the scroll, noting that the wax seal holding it together is white-on-black, though no image has been pressed into it.  The wolf sniffs at her sleeve, and she offers her fingers to it once she has the scroll.  After a few more sniffs, the wolf gives a happy wuffle, and starts to jump around her feet, tugging at her sleeve and trying to leave the castle grounds.

 

“What on earth?” She murmurs, tugging backwards.  “No, _bad_ wolf!  What are you doing?”

 

It flops to the ground pathetically, whining up at her and giving her big, pleading eyes that remind her of Lady.  Sansa cannot look at it for long else risk giving in, so turns her back and cracks the seal, reading the note aloud.

 

_“The North Remembers.  Winter came to House Frey; Tyta Frey is new Lord of the Crossing, by my hand.  Valar Morghulis.  Signed, Arya Stark, Daughter of Winterfell.  King of Winter and King of the Trident!_ ”

 

The Direwolf seal is white-on-black wax.  The handwriting is atrocious, slanting backwards and written with the left hand.

 

“This is her,” Sansa breaths to Jon excitedly.  “She’s _alive_ , and in the Riverlands!” 

 

Another whine, and a second wolf appears.  This one was silver and grey, with a slightly thicker scroll to its’ name.  The brown wolf makes the same happy noise from before, headbutting the silver over to Sansa.  Again, she is sniffed at and the wolf grows excited, grabs at her skirts and gives a tug.  Sansa scolds both wolves, and takes the scroll once more.

 

The handwriting this time is styled to the right, but almost as bad as Arya’s for how small and cramped the writing is.  This one is addressed to Lord Glover directly, so Sansa hands it to him, even as she is trying to get the wolves to let her be.  To her surprise, Robett hands her the note once he has read it himself.  Sansa angles herself so that Jon may read with her, over her shoulder.

 

**_Lord Robett,_ **

**_I have made Winterfell safely, and am in great spirits!  It seems that it was the missing princess, Arya Stark, who has replaced Ramsey at Winterfell, and has taken up her brother’s title.  The King of Winter has gone to avenge the Red Wedding, and also to break the siege of Riverrun.  Lady Erena was correct after all, my lord – her grace the King means to legitimise me and make me the Lord of Hornwood!  There is talk too of a betrothal to one with the Hornwood blood, most like one of Lord Arnolf Karstark’s girls._ **

**_Prince Rickon has been kind to me in the interim, though merciless in the training yards.  I am better with the sword and axe, but I fear the moment he has a staff or spear of any sort within a foot of him, the prince is truly a fierce and fearsome foe.  Even with the lance, for the prince scorns horses in favour of his wolf, and there is neither man nor beast alive who could stand against a Direwolf racing towards them down the lists._ **

**_Her Grace has taken a handmaiden from the Twins, one Della Frey.  She is deaf, but competent, and she and the prince have developed a language of their own entirely out of hand gestures!  She helps the prince with his writing and numeracy, and he returns the favour with staff practice.  One of the weaver apprentices, Irene, is also a confidant of sorts to the prince and the lady.  She has terrible burns, but is clever and quick to learn whatever it is that the prince needs of her.  The Master of Arms at Winterfell is a giant of a man whose name I have yet to learn, for all here call him simply_ the old wolf _.  He is a hard taskmaster, and trains everyone – boy AND girl, noble or common! – in swordplay and staff work.  There is a Wildling woman who serves the prince most faithfully who helps with the staff training, too.  Please tell Lady Erena that she is a Spear Wife, and that Prince Rickon has offered to foster and train her should she be inclined to learn.  That is how he phrased it too, my lord – when I asked if he meant if you permitted it, the prince gave me the strangest reply._**

**_Before I run out of parchment, let me solve that riddle of ours – it seems that the black wax seal is Prince Rickon’s; Her Grace uses white-on-black.  Supposedly she went to a House of Black and White – that is how the prince says it, with capitals – in Braavos, after the death of King Robb.  She pays homage to her trainers and her history, isn’t that fascinating?_ **

**_Her Grace will be calling all of the lords to Winterfell to swear their loyalties to House Stark upon her return to the North.  Prince Rickon says that you are welcome to come earlier should you wish it, as it is such a long way from the Motte, and as you were so worried for me when last we spoke.  The prince is also hopeful that his sister and half-brother are found by then – Princess Sansa escaped the Boltons days before her sister was able to serve justice to the traitors, and neither the prince nor king have been able to find her.  If you hear anything, or see them, would you please pass on that her siblings are worried for her, my lord?_ **

**_I look forward to your reply,_ **

**_Larence Snow, soon to be Hornwood!_ **

 

Sansa looks at Jon then with shining eyes.  Her emotions are too tumultuous, she cannot bring herself to say anything at all.

 

“She’s alive,” Jon croaked.  “They’re both alive and _safe_!  I thought –!”

 

She nods wordlessly; she had believed their vibrant little sister long gone from this world, too.  “Only _Arya_ ,” she breaths, “Would call herself _King_ instead of _Queen_.”

 

She clears her throat, reins in her emotions as best she can, and turns back to Robett.  “Well, my lord.  Thank you for your hospitality, and perhaps we shall see you at Winterfell, before our sister’s court.  Good day to you.”

 

It is discourteous for her to go so without the lord’s leave, but he hasn’t exactly been a paradigm of courtesy, either.  And if Arya Underfoot is the new King in the North, well, manners aren’t about to be very high as anybody’s priorities, she imagines.

 

The wolves are excited by this, flanking Sansa on either side, pushing her forward and yipping happily.  And really, isn’t that just _Arya_ too, to use wolves instead of ravens – to have _giant puppies_ instead of fearsome beasts, besides!

 

They re-join with their army, and Ghost and the Wildling Tormund both come galloping out of camp.  Ghost does not make any noise, as is his nature – Tormund is whooping and carolling, as is his.

 

“Pretty Crow, how many men can we expect for this fight?”

 

“None – and, there’s no fight, Arya and Rickon have already taken the castle without us!” Jon exclaims, accepting the great hug from the ginger with only a feigned reluctance that Sansa can see.  Ghost is sniffing at the two wolves who had continued to flank Sansa’s horse as they returned from the castle, paying no heed to how they stirred up her mount.

 

“What’s this?” Tormund chuckles at them, ruffling Jon’s hair in what Sansa would call a far-too-familiar fashion.

 

(Though, all things told, she cannot begrudge her brother this.  True and loyal friends are few and far between, if you are a Stark, even an illegitimate one.)

 

“Our little sister, and baby brother.  They’ve already taken Winterfell back – and Arya has declared herself _King_!”

 

“Well, why shouldn’t she?” Tormund asks in a reasonable tone.  “The King is the most powerful person, the one who draws everyone together and protects them, leads them right.  You told me your sister has been missing for years – she must be strong to have survived so long, and to rescue the little one while she was at it.”

 

Sansa and Jon both still at that.  How _logical_.

 

“But, King is a man’s title, not a woman’s,” Sansa said.

 

“You Southerners!”  Tormund scoffed.  (“We’re _Northmen_ ,” Jon growled under his breath.)  “Boy, girl – it doesn’t matter!  _Strength_ is what’s important, and brains after that.  King, Chief – they are the leader.  The one at the top has these titles.  But if you don’t like it so much,” here the ginger turned sly.  “Fight your sister for it.  Or, better yet – let one of my boys try and steal her!  A Stark King and a Wildling, wouldn’t that make a song!”

 

Tormund is giving a big belly laugh at his own wit, but Sansa and Jon are both giving each other eyes.

 

“He has a point,” Sansa says softly.  “There are peoples across the sea who have a title for _leader_ , and a title for _leader’s partner_.  In the Westerosi tongue we say _King_ and _Queen_ , and ours is a male-dominant people, so the King is always male, and the Queen is always female.  But, there isn’t actually anything that says a King _must_ be a man, anymore than there is any law stating that a Queen must be a woman.”

 

Jon opens his mouth to answer her, but before he can say anything Ghost steps up and _looks_ into his eyes, and before either Jon or Sansa can say anything, Jon’s eyes have rolled up in the back of his head, and Ghost _howls_.

 

“Jon!  _Jon!_ ” Tormund catches her around the waist when she goes to clutch her brother, and despite herself Sansa struggles.  “No nononono!  Everything was _good_ , they’re alive and he can’t die, not before we get back to them!”

 

“Easy, girl, easy!” Tormund growls in her ear.  For a moment she could almost pretend that it is the Hound behind her, but Tormund is too short and far too hairy.  “He’s warging.  Didn’t know he could _do_ that!”

 

“What is a warg?” Sansa demands, spinning and shrugging out of Tormund arms, taking three perfunctory steps backwards.  She cannot bare for anyone not her brother or Brienne or Theon to touch her, and none of them are present or in a state to offer her the physical comfort she needs here.

 

“Skinchanger.  One who enters the mind of an animal.  Didn’t take the Pretty Crow for one, though, he’s never mentioned anything like it.  Never heard the wolf make any noise at all, neither.”

 

Jon’s eyes are Stark-dark again, but before they can do anything he whispers _Rickon_ , staggers a step forward and collapses in a dead feint.  Sansa panics again, struggling to reign her terror back so that she can help Tormund lift Jon onto Ghost and take him back to his tent.  They have him settled, and Sansa is desperately trying not to cry, when Jon stirs enough to whisper,

 

“We ride for Winterfell on the morrow.  Sansa, we’re going _home_.”

 

* * *

 

 

They’re in the middle of staff practice when Shaggy tugs at the edges of Rickon’s mind.  Larence, Della and Irene are all racing for him, from either side and the front, and Rickon has seconds before Shaggy pulls him under completely.  His motto in life is _be unpredictable_ , which means that in the five seconds he has left Rickon races straight for Della, plants the butt of his staff into the ground and launches himself up and over all of them, tumbling to his knees and spinning his staff out and behind to sweep everyone off their feet.  Before he can even register the three _thumps_ as they land in heaps on the ground, Rickon is off and running for Shaggy and Osha, skidding forward to take Shaggy’s ruff in one hand.  His eyes roll back in his head as Shaggy takes him under his own skin, fur and four legs and even keener ears.

 

There is the sense of _Wild Sister_ and _Quiet Brother_ , of Nymeria and Ghost.  But behind and to the side of their senses there are other presences.  Arya Rickon recognises immediately, as this is not the first time they have joined via their wolves over the weeks since Arya went South.  The presence by Ghost, though, Rickon only has a vague recognition for – _sad and sorry and dead-not-dead-not-Undead_ – and an image of dark curls and lots of black feathers and fur.

 

_Who are you?_   Rickon demands,

 

_Jon?!_   Arya exclaims, giving the impression of shock and too-big eyes.

 

Joy bounces back to them across the bond, the impression of tears.  _You’re both alive!  Alive!_

 

Rickon is half-in-half-out of Shaggy, hiding himself behind his wolf’s impression.  _Are you Quiet Brother’s partner?  Are you our brother, too?_

 

_Aye, I am.  Oh, Rickon, look at you!  You’re practically a man grown!_   This makes Rickon bristle.  The old wolf says as much sometimes, when he wants to trick Rickon into doing something Adult and Lordly.  _And Arya!  They’re calling you_ King _, little sister, what have you been up to?_

_It’s a long story,_ Arya answers, voice bland and all emotions locked down.  _I imagine yours is too.  Are you going back to Winterfell?  Where are you now?_

_Deepwood Motte, now, but we’ll head for home at first light!_

_We?  Sansa is with you, then?_

_Aye, she is.  She misses you both, too._

Brief disbelief comes from Arya, before the emotion is pushed down again.  _How many in your company?  How long will you take?_

_A fortnight, perhaps?  We travel with two thousand Free Folk and sixty-two Mormonts._

_Then I shall aim to meet you on the Kings Road.  Rickon, I won’t be much longer, can you hold Winterfell until then?_

_I already said so, didn’t I?_   Rickon scoffs at her.  _I have to go.  I was training with Della and Larence and Irene.  Old wolf is going to yell too, I can tell already._

_Yell at him back, I have Lannisters to kill,_ Arya states, ignoring the shock-horror-fear that lances through their brother.  _Be safe, both of you.  The Many Face God shall not have your names anytime soon, if I have anything to say about it._

_Valar Morghulis,_ Rickon says solemnly.  _Winter is Coming._

_Valar Dohaeris.  Winter is Here._

 

His eyes open to Shaggy’s green, to Irene’s concerned voice, Della’s shaking hands and Larence’s static energy.  Osha is curious, and the Hound worried.

 

He smiles at them, the brightest smile he has given anyone since – since Mother and Father and everyone left Winterfell, surely.

 

“Jon and Sansa are close,” He says.  He signs _brother_ and _sister_ , shuffles his fists against each other at chest height, and taps the knuckle of his curved index finger of his right hand against the bridge of his nose.  For _home_ he holds his right hand up at shoulder height, palm to Della, and raises it up to head height and curves it back down again.  The Hound starts, Irene’s eyes blowing wide.  “Arya will be back about the same time, too.  She takes on the Lannisters tonight with the pack.  She’s going to paint the fields _red and gold._ ”

 

* * *

 

 

_“Who are you?”_

_“No One.  And that is who a girl must become.”_

_“How do I do that?”_

_“A girl must watch.  A girl must be able to see everything, copy everything, blend in anywhere and be any one.  To be truly no one, is to be everyone and anyone at any time.”_

_“Show me how.  Please.”_

_A head inclined towards the door.  “By serving the Many Face God, a girl may become anyone.  All must die.  But first, all must serve.”_

 

She wakes with a start.

 

She had been napping before Nymeria dragged her into the shared mindspace with the wolves and her brothers, preparing for what would come in the night.  She had dreamt of when first she was taken into the House, of her first studies of human motion, facial expressions, ways of walking, talking and emoting.

 

“Your grace?”  Roslin is at her bedside, sewing red and blue tunics for her son with little silver trouts at the breast.  Sally is balancing on one leg with a wooden sword in each hand, and Lothor had also been dozing.  Robin is toddlering from one side of his mother’s new chambers to the other and back, chasing the same grey queen cat who Arya had caught in the larders hours earlier.  “Is something wrong?”

 

“No, my lady.  I now have knowledge of my brother and sister.  Once I finish here, I’ll head straight home again, and meet with them on the Kings Road.”

 

“That is wonderful, my king!” Roslin cried, carefully setting aside her stitching.  “Do you have a plan for tonight then?”

 

“Aye, it’s no different to what I was going to do anyway,” Arya returns, cracking her neck and rolling the kinks out of her shoulders.  “How long was I asleep for?”

 

“Just over an hour and a half, my king.  None have entered, as you ordered, though I heard your great-uncle on the ramparts earlier, following out your previous orders.  And, there was someone who was let through the Lannister Army to the gate, for I heard the portcullis rise and fall.”

 

“When was that?”  Arya demanded.  It must have been whilst she was with the wolves, for surely she would have heard _that,_ light sleeper that she was these days.

 

“Only just before, your grace.”

 

“Right.  Squire, with me.”

 

Arya pulled her cloak about her again, made sure her belt was secure, and swept out of the room with Sally at her heels.  The halls were easy enough to navigate now, the Lord’s Solar a familiar path after the trips she had already taken to it, though it wasn’t hard to follow the sound of raised voices, besides.

 

“I’ve said _no_ three times already!”

 

“I have a _signed letter_ from your niece, Sansa Stark –”

 

“I haven’t seen her since she was a small child, I don’t know her signature, I don’t know you, and we will _not_ surrender!”

 

Well, well.  This is curious.

 

Arya gives the watching guards a look, jerking her head out of the way and holding a finger to her lips to prevent them announcing her.  This is not an aspect of the face of a King.  This is the aspect of No One, of Arya Underfoot, of the Ghost of Harrenhal and Lanna and Mercy and Salty and Cat and Beth and all the rest.

 

The door of the solar is well greased.  The latch is easy enough to quietly ease open, and it is nothing for Arya to throw the door open for affect.

 

“Brienne of Tarth,” She says, dipping her head cordially. 

 

“Arya Stark - you are alive!”  Brienne gasps.  “My lady, I am glad to see it.  We searched for you for three days, when last we met.  Where did you go?”

 

“Braavos.”  Arya says, feeling Sally vibrating indignantly next to her.  Her eyes flick to the man beside and behind the lady knight, says, “We were not introduced, last time.  Who are you?”

 

“Lady Arya –!”

 

“That’s my name,” she corrected.  “You are?”

 

“Podrick Payne, my lady.”

 

“Your grace,” Sally snaps from her elbow.  Arya does not allow her face to change from the smirk she had favoured since first opening the door.  “Arya Stark is King of Winter and King of the Trident!”

 

“You have a letter from my sister?”  Arya asks the big woman, shifting her focus from the squire to his master.  “Would this be to ask for help in retaking Winterfell and rescuing Rickon from the Boltons?  She is too late.  I retook the castle days after her escape.  Ramsay Bolton is dead.  I cut his throat myself.   Rickon I have left in charge of our family home, until my return.  I had planned to head North with the first light tomorrow – you are welcome to join me.”

 

“I beg your pardon, my – your grace, but how?  The Lannister Army is outside these gates.”

 

The smirk grows teeth.  “For now.  They will not be there by morning, I assure you – unless, of course, the Kingslayer listens to my advice.  They have ‘till sunset to surrender, or else all lives are forfeit.”

 

“Your grace!”  Brienne exclaimed.  “There are over eight thousand men out there!  You cannot possibly take _all_ of them out!”

 

“Oh, I think there’s just a few less than that by now,” Arya muses, striding to look out of the window.  “My pack have been into the cookpots already.  Their food stores are rapidly depleting – some has been brought here, some has been sent out to whatever farms are still inhabited.  Their weapons are being stolen, buried, pissed on, shat on, snapped and chewed.  And besides, I have my own means to implement tonight.  But tell me – Sandor Clegane spoke true, when he said that it was Lannister gold that paid for your arms and armour.  And I imagine it was Lannister favours that allowed you two to pass and enter this castle.  So I do have to wonder: what is your reason for being here, Brienne of Tarth?”

 

All of her training – every tick of the face, every shift of the body, every inflection of the voice – she concentrates onto the woman before her.  For Sansa to trust this lady knight so much, either there is a strong history between them, or else she has not grown from the brat of three-and-ten that Arya remembers.  Surely not.  Surely not after _everything_ that they have been through; Sansa has to have learnt _something_. 

 

“As I told you in the vale, your grace,” Brienne said, drawn up proudly, honour and determination in every line of her tall body.  “I swore an oath to your mother, who was my mistress.  I swore that I would find you and your sister and return you to her, and with that no longer possible, I instead vowed to keep you both safe.  I was charged with returning Ser Jaime Lannister to Kings Landing in exchange for yourself and your sister, though we were captured by the Boltons at Harrenhal.  Ser Jaime lost his hand in defence of my honour, and nearly gave his life for mine as well.  He, too, swore to return yourself and the Lady Sansa to your mother, and gifted me this armour and this sword to help me with my mission.  He allowed me to pass through the siege so that I might continue to protect the Lady Sansa.”

 

Well.  The Kingslayer certainly hadn’t lied when he’d said that Brienne of Tarth was honourable and stubborn, Arya would give him that.  She truly believed in everything that she had said.

 

“If I may, your grace – there is almost nothing that pains me so much as your mother’s death.  I had sworn my life to defending hers.  If it would make anything right, I would offer my life in an instant.  However, I have sworn myself to the Lady Sansa, and would return to her at the earliest convenience, with your grace’s permission.”

 

Arya hadn’t met anyone like this in a very, _very_ long time.

 

She hums, trailing a finger across the window ledge.

 

“You want me to spare the Kingslayer?  Do you not think that he owes me, owes the Many Faced God, his life?  He pushed my little brother Bran out of a window and tried to kill him.  He tried to kill my older brother Robb.  His son took my father’s head, his father planned the murder of my mother and brother.”

 

There is conflict written all over that battle-worn face.

 

“It would be your right, your grace,” she says, head bowed.  “I would not presume to tell a king what to do.  However, I would ask that you at least consider keeping Ser Jaime as a prisoner.”

 

Arya hums again, face frozen in that toothsome smirk.  “The letter, if I may?”

 

“Of course,” Brienne bows, hands over the letter, and suddenly Arya is eleven-years-old again, and Septa Mordane is telling her how beautiful her sister’s handwriting is, and _why can’t you be more like Sansa?_

 

**_Ser Bryden,_ **

**_You do not know me, my lord, but you knew my mother.  She would speak of you fondly, and often.  We grew up hearing tales of your exploits.  I would ask you now, despite our lack of knowing each other, to lend your experience and your forces to our cause.  My mother and older brother were murdered at the Twins.  They were betrayed by the Boltons, who were once our bannermen.  I was married to Ramsay Bolton, in a ploy to take back my ancestral seat, and was betrayed myself._ **

**_I call upon our familiar bond.  This is unfair of me, but I beg you come North with the Tully army, great-uncle.  I beg that you help me take back Winterfell, and release the North from these usurpers.  We would then, of course, assist in throwing back the forces of Cersei Lannister from the Riverlands._ **

**_We must take back our homes, for the true enemy is to the North.  Speak with Brienne for any further information._ **

**_Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell._ **

 

It was signed with a Direwolf on grey wax.

 

“ _The true enemy is to the North_ – what does this mean?”

 

“The Wildlings and your half-brother claim that the Dead are marching south, your grace.”

 

“White Walkers and Others?”  Arya askes, head cocking to the side and face slipping back into a neutral mask.  “I thought them only stories to scare children.” 

 

“Your brother insists, your grace.  It is why he let the Wildlings through the Wall when he was Lord Commander.  He speaks of many horrors Beyond the Wall, including an Army of the Dead lead by a Night King.”

 

Arya hadn’t planned for this.  She had heard Old Nan’s stories, same as all her siblings.  If the Night King is real, if he raises an army whilst she sits here waiting for the sun to go down, then she needs to go back North.  She needs to _ready_ the North, she needs –

 

She needs more information.  She needs to speak with Jon directly, needs a plan and needs to inform Rickon.

 

Suddenly, she has more things to do than even she had expected.  _Winter really_ is _coming_ , she thinks to herself wildly.   _And coming fast_.

 

"From the beginning, Lady Brienne.  Tell me everything you know, please."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arya’s line “When Winter comes… no lions no stags no roses etc”, is lifted pretty heavily from tumblr user @daswagguy poem to the same effect.  
> Also, shout out to my mum for proofreading this in Miss Molly’s last-minute absence, and only being marginally criticizing of the fact that this is fanfiction rather than an original story. I’ll take what wins I can get *finger guns*
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts on this one, I'm not a 100% happy with it, but also if I don't get it out now I'll never update, so, here we are.


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